miscommunication

by deadvinesandfanfics

Summary:

Peter had always known they weren’t well off.

He wasn’t stupid, even when he was small. He knew that May clipped coupons, that she hesitated before putting name brands in the cart, that sometimes the milk was watered down just a little bit more than it had been the week before. He knew that when other kids at school talked about vacations or “just ordering food,” it wasn’t something he could casually chime in about.

But knowing was different than sitting at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched over a stack of envelopes with big red letters screaming OVERDUE across the front.

Notes:

ooookay. im back. this WAS supposed to be like, 40k, but given my terrible estimates for fic lengths recently and the *checks notes* already 60k in my docs, i'm just going to say that i have no idea how long this is gonna be. my self control is gone. might be 80k, might be 800k. ive given up predicting. im sorry in advance.

but!! anyways, back with another fic. a little more lighthearted this time (no literal torture yet) so. thats something!!

*very important note. as usual, “chose not to display archive warnings” does not mean no warnings. Be warned.

Chapter 1: noticed

Summary:

Peter had always known they weren’t well off.

He wasn’t stupid, even when he was small. He knew that May clipped coupons, that she hesitated before putting name brands in the cart, that sometimes the milk was watered down just a little bit more than it had been the week before. He knew that when other kids at school talked about vacations or “just ordering food,” it wasn’t something he could casually chime in about.

But knowing was different than sitting at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched over a stack of envelopes with big red letters screaming OVERDUE across the front.

Notes:

and so it begins >:)

tws will always be in the end notes, so be sure to check them!!

Peter had always known they weren’t well off.

 

He wasn’t stupid, even when he was small. He knew that May clipped coupons, that she hesitated before putting name brands in the cart, that sometimes the milk was watered down just a little bit more than it had been the week before. He knew that when other kids at school talked about vacations or “just ordering food,” it wasn’t something he could casually chime in about.

 

But knowing was different than sitting at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched over a stack of envelopes with big red letters screaming OVERDUE across the front.

 

His stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the fact he hadn’t eaten since… lunch? Maybe breakfast. He didn’t remember. It was too easy not to keep track anymore. The ache was almost comforting - it gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the numbers.

 

The problem wasn’t even just the overdue bill in front of him, though that was bad enough. It was the realization that this wasn’t the first, and it wasn’t going to be the last. Each envelope May tucked away in the “don’t worry about it” pile was one more that was piling up in Peter’s head, heavy and impossible to ignore. He could feel it pressing down on his ribs.

 

He tried to think logically. Midtown was on a scholarship - full tuition, books covered, field trips covered. It wasn’t nothing. It was huge. It was more than most people got, and he knew May was proud of him for it.

 

But scholarships didn’t buy food. Scholarships didn’t keep the heat on. Scholarships didn’t magically refill the fridge when he came home after patrol and realized there were only two eggs left in the carton, one lonely apple in the crisper, and a jar of peanut butter that was almost empty.

 

And scholarships sure as hell didn’t cover the fact that his suit ate through electricity and watered-down cleaning products faster than either of them could afford.

 

He stared down at the envelope again, jaw tight, fingernail digging at the seam until the paper started to fray. He shouldn’t look. He shouldn’t open it. May had probably left it here by accident, trusting him to actually listen when she said, don’t worry about it, honey, I’ve got it handled.

 

But she didn’t. Not really.

 

He pushed back from the table abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the tile floor in a sound that made his teeth ache. He paced the kitchen once, twice, three times, hands in his hair, trying to breathe through the growing knot in his throat.

 

He needed to do something.

 

He couldn’t just sit here, week after week, being a weight. A black hole. Midtown covered the big things, sure, but he was expensive in all the little ways. He ate more than he should, because his body burned through everything trying to keep up with the stupid radioactive nightmare that lived in his bloodstream. His clothes tore faster than they should, sneakers worn through from running and age and duct tape only did so much to hold them together. His hoodies stretched out or ripped at the seams. His stupid body couldn’t regulate heat, so in the summer he was guzzling cold water and in the winter he was running space heaters in his room and pretending not to notice when May checked the electric bill twice.

 

And God. The guilt. The never-ending, gnawing guilt.

 

Every time he sat down at that table, every time he passed May in the hall and she smiled like nothing was wrong, he could feel it rising in his chest. He didn’t contribute. He couldn’t. All he did was take, and take, and take.

 

But maybe- 

 

Maybe he could.

 

The thought landed heavy, but steady, like a piece clicking into place in his brain. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before. But he’d always dismissed it. Too busy. Too dangerous. Too obvious. May would notice, May would worry, May would say no.

 

But if he was careful - if he found something out of the way, nothing too flashy, nothing too demanding - maybe he could make it work.

 

He could picture it, suddenly. A shitty job. Something small. Something that didn’t require a resume or references or - God forbid - parents. Just a few hours after school, a little cash, enough to help cover the groceries. Enough to make a difference.

 

He could do that. He had to do that.

 

His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to the bills on the table. His pulse thudded in his ears. 

 

He considered Delmar’s. Briefly. The sandwiches, the bell on the door, the way Delmar looked at him like a kid he’d watched grow up. He could ask. Delmar liked him, kind of. But the thought of May walking in one afternoon, seeing him behind the counter - no. Absolutely not. That was too close to home.

 

He needed something farther. A bodega, maybe. A little place out of the way, far enough from Queens that nobody would recognize him, far enough from his place that May’s friends wouldn’t stumble across him restocking shelves. Somewhere anonymous. Somewhere he could just be a body.

 

His throat felt dry.

 

The decision made his chest tight, but in a way that was almost relieving. At least it was something. A plan. A thing he could do, instead of just sitting here watching numbers climb into the red.

 

He sat back down, forced himself to breathe slow, to unclench his fists. He had to think this through. He couldn’t afford to mess it up. Not when May’s smiley sticky notes were getting thinner every week, not when she came home late and rubbed at her temples like she thought he didn’t notice.

 

Tomorrow. After school. He’d look.

 

He’d find something.

 

He had to.

 

—

 

He found a place, held his breath, and asked for work. He got the job.

 

And it was just as miserable as he’d imagined.

 

The bodega smelled like old grease and mop water, a weird sticky scent that never fully left his clothes, no matter how many showers he took or how hard he scrubbed. The hours weren’t good but they weren’t terrible either - just long enough that he’d feel it in his bones when he dragged himself home, short enough that his paycheck would always look insultingly thin. His boss wasn’t the worst - gruff, tired, probably just as beaten down by bills and rent and endless late notices as everyone else - but he was quick to bark and quicker to cut hours if someone annoyed him. The coworkers were… fine. Most of them older, juggling two or three jobs. He felt awkward around them, like some kid who didn’t really belong, but they didn’t seem to mind him much. They were just… there, too.

 

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t even legal, not really, since his boss slipped him below-minimum-wage cash under the table. But it was money. Tangible, crumpled bills. Money he could fold in his fist and slide into his backpack. Money he could bring home without May knowing.

 

Patrols took a hit, of course. He’d known they would. He still went out, still swung across the city with his mask pulled tight, but things had to shift. They started later, after closing shifts, and they ended later too, bleeding into his sleep until he’d jolt awake in class with ink smeared across his cheek from his notebook. 

 

It wasn’t sustainable, not really. But neither was watching May sigh over another bill, rubbing her temples like maybe if she pressed hard enough the numbers would rearrange themselves into something manageable.

 

If they couldn’t live, Spider-Man couldn’t patrol. That was the simple truth. What good was saving New York if he couldn’t even make sure his own roof stayed over their heads?

 

So he told himself it was worth it. Every miserable hour, every ache in his feet and every aching blister from hauling boxes in the back. Worth it when he could sneak his hard-earned cash into May’s coat pockets or tuck it between her folded laundry, just enough for her to find and think - hopefully - that she’d misplaced it earlier.

 

The first time he did it, he nearly threw up from nerves. He’d counted the crumpled twenties twice, shoved them into the pocket of her favorite cardigan, and then spent the entire evening waiting for her to burst into his room demanding answers. But she didn’t. She just smiled faintly at dinner, like she’d remembered some private joke, and told him not to worry about the groceries when he’d asked why they were having roast chicken, like it was something that wasn’t a rarity.

 

He almost cried.

 

It became a routine after that. Cash slipped into little corners of the house, breadcrumbs she’d pick up one by one. Sometimes she’d sigh in relief, sometimes she’d laugh, sometimes she’d just carry on like nothing happened - but Peter saw the difference. Saw her shoulders ease a little.

 

And it made him feel… complicated. Proud, maybe. But also guilty. Because May shouldn’t have to find mystery money in her own laundry just to breathe easier. Because it wasn’t enough, never enough, not really. And because he knew - deep down - that if he wasn’t Spider-Man, if he wasn’t constantly running through shoes, tearing clothes, burning through calories like a furnace, maybe she wouldn’t be under so much pressure in the first place.

 

He was the reason their expenses were so high. He knew it. He’d always known it, and he hated himself a little more each time he handed over another twenty to the man at the register just for protein powder or second-hand sneakers that wouldn’t even last the month. Mr. Stark's occassional gifts were nice little surprises; the new calculator or binders for school or the "Hey, I know I'm old, but surely the fashion isn't having that many holes in your shirt, kid. Think of it as an early birthday present."

 

They were good, and they gave him something that he could save money on, but he couldn't eat any of that. He still needed food when he wasn't at the tower, and he also knew he couldn’t stop being Spider-Man, couldn’t stop trying to fix things for her, couldn’t stop this ridiculous cycle of breaking himself down to hold everything else up.

 

So he worked.

 

And when his boss barked at him for stacking cans too slowly, he ducked his head and muttered an apology. When his hands smelled like mop water for days, he just shoved them deeper into his hoodie pockets. When his grades slipped, he forced himself to study at one in the morning with his eyelids twitching from fatigue.

 

Because it was worth it.

 

Because it had to be worth it.

 

Because if it wasn’t - if this didn’t help, if it wasn’t enough, if May figured it out and got angry at him for lying - then what was he even doing?

 

— 

 

Peter was only half listening to Ned.

 

It wasn’t that Ned wasn’t making sense - Ned always made sense when it came to Lego, in a way that was both admirable and exhausting - but Peter’s brain felt like it had been packed in cotton. His eyelids had that faint, scratchy weight to them, his muscles slow to catch up to his thoughts. A normal morning meant the usual low-level fatigue from patrol, but this wasn’t normal morning tired. This was bone-deep, like someone had scooped the energy out of him and replaced it with wet sand. Ned was going on about a new modular building set - maybe a police station, maybe a firehouse - and Peter was nodding at the right beats, throwing in a couple of “yeah, that’s awesome”s that he hoped sounded genuine. But the words slipped past him like water through fingers, and he was left holding nothing.

 

That was probably what he got after coming to school with a mildly infected stab wound and shoddy half-healed stitches. Whatever. He’d cope.

 

The hallway was loud; all sneakers against linoleum, overlapping voices and the sharp crack of someone’s binder hitting the floor. Normally he could filter it out, pick apart the conversations, figure out where he needed to step so he wouldn’t get in someone’s way. But his spider sense pricked faintly in the back of his skull, just enough to make him blink - and he let it go. 

 

He welcomed letting it go. Last time he’d flinched away from that warning during gym class when a ball had come sailing towards his head courtesy of Flash, and it had been a mess of suspicion and weird looks and too many questions.

 

So when the locker door slammed directly into his forehead, it felt almost… inevitable.

 

The clang reverberated up through his skull, making his vision flash white for a split second, and Peter just stood there with his eyes closed, breathing in slowly through his nose like maybe he could will the pain away. His forehead throbbed in a dull, stubborn way, not sharp enough to really register as pain but enough to make him wish he’d gone with that bleary, “let’s skip first period” plan he’d had when he first woke up.

 

“Nice one, Penis,” Flash called

 

When Peter finally blinked his eyes open, Flash was standing just far enough away to keep plausible deniability, but close enough that Peter could smell the chemical tang of whatever gel he used in his hair.

 

“Thanks, man,” Peter said flatly, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Really thoughtful way to start my morning.”

 

Flash grinned wider. “Hey, if you can’t dodge a locker, maybe you shouldn’t-”

 

The words cut off button mid-sentence. Peter frowned slightly and turned just enough to see Flash’s expression change. The smirk wavered, then faded entirely, replaced with a narrowing of the eyes as his gaze dipped - not to Peter’s face, not to the bruise blooming across his forehead - but to his shoulder.

 

Shit.

 

Peter’s T-shirt wasn’t exactly loose, and between the stretch of fabric and the awkward angle of his bag strap, a gap had opened at the sleeve. Enough for a jagged smear of purple-black to peek through. It wasn’t neat, wasn’t the kind of single-impact bruise you could pass off as a bump into a table or a bad fall during gym. It was ugly - layered, uneven, the kind that screamed someone hit you, and hit you more than once.

 

Peter’s stomach went cold.

 

Without thinking, he jerked his arm closer to his side, yanking at his sleeve until the bruise disappeared under the cotton. “Don’t-” he started, too fast, too sharp.

 

Flash’s eyes flicked back up to his face, but his expression had tightened. The silence stretching just a fraction too long.

 

Peter’s fingers dug into his bag strap until his knuckles whitened. He forced out a laugh - small, awkward, something that didn’t sound like it belonged to him - and started to sidestep away. He turned away, and Ned quickly recovered and followed him.

 

He could still feel those eyes on him as he walked down the hall, and that was worse than the locker.

 

—

 

Flash hated Peter Parker.

 

Well, maybe hate was a strong word, but it was close enough. He definitely didn’t like him. Couldn’t stand him, really. There was something about Parker that just rubbed every nerve raw, like nails down a chalkboard in human form.

 

He was smart, but in the worst possible way. Not the kind of smart that was impressive, that made you want to copy his answers or actually respect him. No, Parker was smart in that annoying way, the way where he acted like he didn’t know everything but you knew he did. That fake-humble crap that made teachers fawn all over him; “Oh, Peter, excellent insight as always,” like he hadn’t just raised his hand for the millionth time in a row. Half the time, he’d stumble through his answers like he wasn’t sure, and then it would turn out he was right, and suddenly he was class golden boy.

 

It pissed Flash off.

 

And the worst part? Parker didn’t even try. He showed up in duct-taped sneakers like it wasn’t embarrassing, wore the same hoodie so many times Flash was convinced it was the only one he owned, and was always late to gym. Always. To the point where the coach had stopped calling him out for it. He’d stroll in, damp hair clinging to his forehead like he’d sprinted to make it through the door, clutching his bag. And everyone just… let him. Nobody ever made him strip down in the locker room. He always managed to show up after the bell, when everyone else was already changed, so he could go hide in the bathroom stalls or whatever.

 

Coward.

 

Flash hated cowards.

 

He didn’t understand how someone could be that pathetic and still walk around like it was normal. Parker didn’t fight back, didn’t stand up straight, didn’t… anything. He just ducked his head and shrugged like it was easier to let people steamroll him. Like he thought he was better than everyone else for not caring.

 

Flash knew people like that. The weak ones, the ones who thought not throwing punches made them superior. But Parker wasn’t superior. He was just sad.

 

But now… there were bruises.

 

Flash hadn’t meant to see them. He wasn’t paying that much attention when he smacked the locker into Parker’s head. It was supposed to be funny, just the usual shove-and-run kind of thing. But then Parker had shifted, and the movement had pulled at his sleeve, and Flash had caught a glimpse. Ugly purple-black streaks creeping out from under the cotton, layered in that way that didn’t happen from just one hit.

 

That was… something else.

 

Flash had been a jerk, sure. He’d shoved Parker into lockers before, tripped him in the hall, even gotten a good hit in once or twice back in middle school. But he’d never left marks like that. Never stacked bruise over bruise until it looked like someone had used Parker for a punching bag.

 

Flash had frozen when he saw it, the laugh dying in his throat before it could even make it out. He knew the look of that kind of injury. He knew what it meant.

 

And Parker had seen him looking.

 

The way his face had gone sharp for a second - panic flashing across his eyes like he’d been caught red-handed. Not guilty, exactly. More like scared. Like Flash knowing meant something bad. Like it mattered.

 

Flash had let him walk away, but his brain hadn’t stopped circling it since.

 

Now, sitting in class with his notebook open and the teacher droning on about some formula or other, Flash couldn’t stop staring. Not at Parker’s face - though that was irritating enough, with his furrowed brow and that way he chewed at the inside of his cheek when he was concentrating - but at his arms. At the fabric stretched over them, the hoodie sleeve tugged low even though it wasn’t cold.

 

He knew the bruises were still under there. Hidden now, but there.

 

And Flash wanted to know who the hell had put them there.

 

Because the thing was, Flash might not have liked Parker, but those bruises weren’t his brand of cruelty. He liked embarrassing Parker, sure. He liked getting under his skin. But this… wasn’t fun. This was mean.

 

And Flash - well, he’d never admit it out loud, but he wasn’t that mean.

 

He slouched lower in his seat, tapping his pencil against the desk. Parker was sitting two rows over, angled just enough that Flash could see the side of his face. He looked tired. Not just the normal tired everyone at Midtown carried around with them, but worn out, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. His eyes kept flicking down, unfocused, before he jerked them back to the board like he was forcing himself awake.

 

Flash clenched his jaw.

 

It wasn’t his problem.

 

Parker could deal with his own crap. If someone was roughing him up, maybe he deserved it. Maybe that was the universe’s way of finally humbling him, taking him down a peg.

 

But still.

 

The thought stuck, like gum on the bottom of his shoe.

 

Every time Parker shifted, every time he reached for his pen or stretched his arm, Flash was watching. Looking for the dark edges that had been there in the hallway. Imagining them blooming further, hidden beneath the hoodie.

 

Ugly. Ugly enough to almost make him feel sick.

 

And Flash hated that, too.

 

He wasn’t supposed to care. He didn’t care.

 

He was supposed to hate Parker. He did. He glanced over at him; leaning on an elbow, half-awake and sketching something lazily in his workbook instead of paying attention, and tried not to let his lip curl out of impulse.

 

Whatever. It wasn’t his problem.

 

 —

 

Peter’s whole body felt like it was trying to fold in on itself by the time the last bell rang. Not in the metaphorical, melodramatic way - though sure, there was probably some of that too - but literally. His spine felt like it was curling down, and his shoulders slouched under the weight of a backpack that felt heavier than it should’ve been.

 

He was so hungry.

 

School was over. Thank God. That meant the final gauntlet of scraping himself through crowded hallways, shoving notebooks and pens into the backpack without any organization (Future Peter could deal with that, good luck to him), and the vague hope that he wouldn’t run into Flash again on his way out.

 

He was so, so tired.

 

Not the “oh no, I stayed up too late watching dumb YouTube videos and now my eyes sting” kind of tired. This was the deeper, meaner kind, the kind that sank into him like wet cement and hardened around every bone. Patrol last night hadn’t even been that intense - just a couple of muggers, one car accident, one lost dog (found, thankfully, even if the thing had drooled all over his suit in relief), and that stupid lingering throb of the stitched-up stab wound in his side and the locker incident that morning, Peter felt like every single cell in his body had just given up on him.

 

He caught Ned’s voice before he caught Ned himself. They always fell into step together after last period, and Ned had his binder under one arm and a half-open pack of Skittles in the other hand, popping one into his mouth every few steps as he navigated the hallway.  

 

“Hey,” Ned said, a little quieter than usual, once they’d passed the first set of exit doors. His eyes flicked left and right, making sure the crowd of kids spilling out onto the sidewalk weren’t close enough to overhear. “You gonna, uh… go out tonight?”

 

Peter blinked. His brain lagged half a second before catching up to the whisper-tone and the particular phrasing. Patrol. Ned meant patrol.

 

“Yeah,” Peter said, and his voice came out low, half a yawn curled in the back of it. He tugged at the strap of his backpack again, shifting it higher on his sore shoulder. “Probably. Just for a little bit, though.”

 

Ned gave him a look that was skeptical, his mouth pulled to the side and looking at him like he was stupid. “Just a little bit,” he echoed. “You always say ‘just a little bit.’ You know how many times it’s actually ended up being just a little bit?”

 

Peter huffed out a laugh through his nose, but it wasn’t real amusement - it was the dry, scratchy kind of laugh that barely counted - but he offered it anyway. “This time I mean it.”

 

Ned wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t push. “You, uh… triple-checked that Tony Stark doesn’t have your vitals hooked up anymore, right?”

 

That one made Peter’s mouth press flat, because of course Ned remembered. Ned remembered everything Peter tried to downplay.

 

“Yeah,” Peter said after a beat. “Triple-checked. You made sure, right? You’re better at that than me, dude.”

 

Ned nodded, but his eyes were searching Peter’s face like he was trying to detect a lie. “Yeah. I mean - mostly. The way I’ve left it set up, is that it only kicks in if you’re, like…” Ned paused, lips twisting. “ …danger danger.”

 

Peter groaned softly. “Ned, no. Don’t say it like that.”

 

“I’m serious!” Ned said, though his whisper kept it from carrying beyond them. “It doesn’t send him updates every time you get a bruise or twist your ankle or whatever. But if you’re - like - dying dying, it’ll ping him. Which, y’know, I don’t think is the worst thing in the world?”

 

Peter rolled his eyes and rubbed the side of his forehead where the locker had smacked him earlier. The bruise was settling in nicely; he could feel the tenderness beneath his fingers. “No, dude. I can handle it.”

 

Ned shot him another look, this one a little exasperated. “Handle it. Right. Okay. Sure. But just so you know - if you get, like, stabbed again-”

 

“Again?” Peter repeated, feigning ignorance, even though his side throbbed at the word.

 

“-you’re calling me. Promise me.” Ned’s voice sharpened a little, the way it sometimes did when he was trying to be firm without tipping into parental territory. “Or, like, you can swing by my place. My lola already thinks you’re half-feral, so showing up bleeding wouldn’t even surprise her at this point.”

 

Peter snorted, a real laugh this time, soft but genuine. “Aren’t you going over to your cousins tonight, though?”

 

Ned’s expression flattened: the corners of his mouth dragged down, his eyes widened slightly, then narrowed in resignation. “Ugh. I forgot about that.”

 

Peter grinned. “They’re sweet. You love them.”

 

“There’s so many of them,” Ned groaned, drawing the words out like a death sentence. “I like them! Don’t get me wrong. But there are so many. And they’re loud. And half of them want me to fix their iPads because apparently I’m now Apple tech support.”

 

Peter bit back a laugh, shaking his head. “Guess that means I’m not allowed to get super injured tonight, then.”

 

“Exactly,” Ned said, pointing a Skittle at him. “Not allowed. If you come back with, like, a broken arm or a concussion or whatever, that’s on you. I am absolved of all responsibility.”

 

Peter lifted two fingers in a half-hearted salute, his grin still faintly tugging at his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

 

Ned shoved the rest of the Skittle pack into his hoodie pocket and bumped his shoulder against Peter’s as they reached the corner where their paths usually split. “Don’t make me regret being your guy in the chair.”

 

“You won’t,” Peter said, grinning, and felt like a liar.

 

The strap cut into his shoulder as he walked, rubbing against his hoodie, and he pulled it tighter anyway. It was ridiculous how heavy a few textbooks and a change of clothes could feel when he was already worn down. He had super strength, nothing should feel heavy anymore.

 

He tried to force his thoughts into something neutral - counting cracks in the pavement, humming under his breath - but he still felt… guilty. Like a liar, which was a stupid way to feel, because Spider-Man meant that he obviously had to lie to everyone about who he was. Only Mr. Stark and Ned knew (and MJ, too, after she'd cornered him outside of Acadec when he'd turned up looking miserable and beaten and more than a little suspicious. He'd tried to deny it, but she'd poked him right where the bandages were visible and looked pissed off when Peter even considered about lying to her, so... she knew now, too.) And technically so did Liz’s dad, but he didn’t want to think about that.

 

But Ned didn’t know about his job. Nobody did. May thought he was at study hall or catching up on extra credit after school, and Peter hated the taste of the lie every time he gave it to her, hated how easy it was to make his voice light and casual as if nothing in the world was wrong. He’d gotten better at it. 

 

That wasn’t a comforting thought.

 

May was almost always at work until six, sometimes later if the traffic was slow. That gave him just enough time. Enough to clock in, drag himself through his shift, and get home with his backpack slung over his shoulder, dinner reheated in the microwave before she even walked through the door. If he did it right, she’d never know. She didn’t need to.

 

But fuck, he was tired.

 

By the time he pushed open the squeaky glass door to the bodega, the stale smell of recycled air and dust already clung to his clothes. The inside was dim, shelves stocked but uneven, and there was one flickering fluorescent buzzing loud enough to make his eye twitch.

 

It was miserable. Just as miserable as he’d remembered it to be.

 

His boss barely looked up from the register when Peter walked in. The man wasn’t unkind - he wasn’t much of anything, really. He worked long hours himself, hair thinning and hands rough, his tired smile stretched thin but still genuine when Peter managed to catch it. The coworkers were the same; tired but trying, and Peter slotted in just fine.

 

The money wasn’t good. Under the table and less than minimum wage, but money was money. He kept telling himself that. If it was enough to sneak into May’s laundry pile, enough to tuck in the pocket of her coat or slip beneath the toaster so she’d think she’d misplaced it herself, then it was worth it. It was a little less of that tired pinch at the corners of her mouth when she thought he wasn’t looking.

 

Patrols had taken the hit, of course. He couldn’t swing halfway across Queens and back and still make it in time to pretend he’d been studying. He told himself it was fine, because New York could cope. Spider-Man could be late. What was the point of saving strangers every night if he couldn’t keep May from drowning under overdue notices?

 

He stocked shelves first, dragging boxes down the narrow aisles. Chips, sodas, energy drinks, the occasional dented can. It didn’t matter what. His body just… moved. 

 

He was tired, and when he finally slumped down behind the counter, head tipped back against the dingy wall, he felt the ache settle deep in his bones. His eyelids drooped, just for a second. Just long enough for the edges of his vision to blur.

 

The bell above the door chimed.

 

Peter jerked upright. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to look awake, professional, whatever that meant. Customers came and went. A couple kids grabbed candy bars, a woman picked up milk and bread. Normal. Ordinary. Easy.

 

It wasn’t glamorous; the counter wobbled when you leaned on it too hard, the fluorescent lights buzzed and everything was sticky in ways Peter tried not to think about too hard. His boss didn’t care much about Peter as long as he showed up on time, did the shelves, rang up customers without screwing up, and didn’t complain about being paid under the table.

 

That last part sat like a stone in Peter’s chest. He knew it wasn’t legal. But wasn’t that the whole point? He needed something quiet, something forgettable, something no one would look at twice, because he wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. Midtown had policies about student employment, and if the principal knew he was stocking shelves for below-minimum wage instead of memorizing physics equations, they’d pull his scholarship faster than he could blink.

 

Which was why, when he looked up from the register one night and saw Flash Thompson walk through the door, Peter thought his entire world might have just ended.

 

At first it didn’t register. Peter was tired - bone-deep, teeth-rattling tired. He’d just let himself sink against the counter for a moment, but then the back of his neck prickled as the bell above the door chimed - and stupid, stupid Peter had been thinking about a robber - but when he dragged his eyes up, he froze.

 

Flash was there. Flash, and two of his buddies.

 

For one insane second Peter actually thought maybe he was hallucinating from exhaustion, because what were the chances? What were the odds that Midtown’s resident tormentor would wander into his crappy corner store on the exact day Peter was too wiped out to even plaster on a fake smile? But then Flash’s eyes met his, wide and confused, and Peter knew it wasn’t a dream.

 

Flash Thompson.

 

Of course. Of course it had to be him.

 

Flash stood there with his usual crowd of friends,his jacket thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Peter’s stomach dropped. His hands curled tighter around the edge of the counter, and he prayed, please don’t, please don’t, please just walk away, please don’t see me. He was talking, laughing - until his gaze snagged on Peter behind the counter.

 

Flash blinked. Stared. His friends followed his gaze, and then - of course - they started laughing. Loud, wheezing, bent-double laughter.

 

Flash laughed too, eventually, though it didn’t sound as sharp-edged as his friends’. More startled than anything. Still enough to make Peter’s face burn.

 

Peter wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. He wanted the shelves to collapse on top of him. He wanted anything except for Flash Thompson to be standing ten feet away watching him wear a name tag and ring up sodas at a failing bodega. Peter felt shame curl hot and sour in his gut. His throat went dry, his face prickling like he’d been slapped. He ducked his head, pretending to check the register, pretending not to hear the way they jeered.

 

“Oh my God, Flash, is Parker-”

 

 “Dude, is that your job?”

 

 “No wonder he’s always late to everything!”

 

Flash laughed too - not loud, not cruel in the way Peter had braced for - but careless. Like it didn’t matter at all. Like Peter’s chest wasn’t caving in on itself.

 

His stomach curled up into something sharp and ugly. He could already hear the jokes they’d spin out of this at school. Spider-Man wasn’t supposed to be humiliated by Flash Thompson in a place that smelled like wet cardboard and stale chips. But Peter Parker? Peter Parker was fair game.

 

By the time they dropped a few bags of chips and bottles on the counter, Peter could barely keep his hands steady. He rang them up as fast as he could, eyes fixed on the register like it might protect him if he didn’t look up.

 

“Hey,” one of Flash’s friends said, grinning, “you’re not gonna, like, keep our change, right? Store policy?”

 

The other one snorted so hard soda fizzed out of his nose. “Gotta pay for tuition somehow.”

 

“Nah, he’s on a scholarship,” another one snorted. Peter couldn’t look at him. “You think he could afford it without someone else paying for it?”

 

More laughter.

 

Peter swallowed hard, the shame digging deeper. He wanted to vanish. He wanted to swing out of there, disappear into the skyline where nobody could touch him. Instead, he slid their change across the counter, kept his head down, and waited.

 

They left eventually, the bell jingling cheerfully as the door slammed shut behind them.

 

The silence that followed was deafening.

 

Peter sat there, staring at the counter, his reflection warped in the scratched plastic. His chest ached. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, because it was just Flash, and he was doing a good thing by working to help May. The only thing that mattered was the crumpled bills that would go home in his pocket tonight.

 

But the shame stayed. Heavy. Tangled with exhaustion until he couldn’t tell one from the other.

 

When his boss finally pressed the thin wad of cash into his hand, Peter muttered a thanks, shoved it into his hoodie pocket, and headed out into the night.

 

The city lights blurred against his tired eyes. His legs felt heavy. His backpack strap bit into his shoulder again, and all he could think was that tomorrow would be the same. And the next day. And the next.

 

And still - when he thought about the look on May’s face when she found a twenty she thought she’d lost, or the way her shoulders seemed to ease just slightly when she thought the bills weren’t quite as bad as she remembered - Peter told himself it was worth it.

 

He shoved the money into his pocket, shoved his bag over his shoulder, and shoved the entire encounter down into the part of his brain he reserved for things that hurt too much to think about.

 

—

 

The subway platform was already crowded, students and office workers packed shoulder-to-shoulder in that end-of-day way. Peter wedged himself between a guy in a suit holding a folded newspaper and a woman dragging a bright yellow shopping bag. His backpack bumped awkwardly against his knees when he sat on the edge of the bench, but he didn’t bother adjusting it. 

 

By the time he climbed the stairs out of the station near his building, the sky was already melting into the blue-grey of early evening. The city smelled like car exhaust and hot pretzels.  

 

The apartment was dark when he unlocked the door. Quiet, too - no sound of the TV from the bedroom, no muffled phone call. Just stillness. For a second his chest tightened, a stupid instinctual flash of panic that something had gone wrong - because he was later than he’d thought, and May should be home by now - but then he spotted the sticky note plastered on the fridge door.

 

dinner’s in the fridge :)

 

Peter let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

He was starving. His stomach had been gnawing at him since third period, a dull, persistent ache he’d ignored. Now it was louder, sharp around the edges, a reminder that his body needed fuel if it was going to bother healing the way it was supposed to.

 

He opened the fridge. Inside was a container of leftovers - pasta, by the looks of it, something with tomato sauce that had congealed a little in the cold. His mouth watered immediately.

 

But then his eyes flicked to the rest of the shelves. A carton of eggs, two apples that were a little wrinkled, half a loaf of bread, and not much else. The cupboard wasn’t any better - cereal box nearly empty, a can of soup, peanut butter scraping the bottom.

 

If he ate all the pasta now, what would be left when she got home?

 

Peter chewed the inside of his cheek, the ache in his stomach twisting tighter. He wanted to just wolf down the whole thing, scrape the container clean with bread and finally feel full for once. But he forced himself to scoop out half, sliding the rest back onto the fridge shelf. Because if she got home late and hungry he wanted her to have something. And even then he’d felt guilty, because he was always hungry. And if he ate too much, that was food she wouldn’t have.

 

Whatever. Tomorrow was lab night. Tomorrow meant Mr. Stark, and Mr. Stark meant pizza - any amount of pizza Peter could bring himself to ask for. He’d get by until then.

 

He’d reheated the leftovers carefully, deliberately. His chest hurt.

 

The microwave hummed, spinning the bowl slowly until the sauce bubbled. Peter leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone one-handed, the light from the screen painting his tired face. Ned had sent him a string of texts already:

 

guy in the chair: good luck

guy in the chair: don’t be dumb

guy in the chair: if you get stabbed again I’m telling ur aunt

 

Peter snorted, and sent a single thumbs-up emoji back.

 

The microwave beeped, and without waiting, he shoveled a forkful into his mouth. It burned his tongue, but he didn’t care and kept eating until the bowl was scraped bare.

 

For a second, Peter debated. He could nap. He could crash right there on the couch, shoes still on, and let the city take care of itself for one night. He was exhausted, bruised, patched up with stitches that ached every time he shifted too fast.

 

But the thought of staying home while people needed him left a sour taste in his mouth, so he dragged himself into his room, shut the door, and pulled the suit from where it was stuffed into the bottom drawer. The fabric was still faintly stiff in places, the mask smelling like detergent and a little bit like sweat. He pulled it on carefully, mindful of his side, wincing as the material pressed too tight across the bruise on his shoulder.

 

The mask went over his head last, sealing him into someone else entirely. Not tired Peter Parker. Not the kid dragging through hallways, or someone hungry.

 

Now, he was Spider-Man.

 

He opened the window, swung one leg out, then the other, and crawled onto the fire escape. The city stretched below him in glowing lines of headlights and streetlamps. The air was warmer than it had been that morning.

 

One deep breath. One more to steady himself.  

 

The web-line sang out as it caught on a building across the street. His body arced through the air, pulling a grin from him before he could stop it. 

 

“Good evening, Peter,” Karen’s voice curled in his ear.

 

“Hey, Karen,” he murmured back, swinging low over an intersection. “How’s the crime looking? Anything fun tonight?”

 

“Relatively quiet tonight,” she reported. “Minor incidents in your radius - attempted bike theft, a fender-bender on Forty-Fifth, one group of tourists looking very lost.”

 

Peter huffed a laugh, swooping higher. “Tourists are always lost.”

 

The next hour blurred. He broke up an argument that was tipping toward a fight outside a deli. He returned a stolen backpack to a middle-schooler who thanked him with wide eyes. He gave directions to a family from Ohio who wanted Times Square and settled for taking selfies with him first. The father kept calling him “buddy,” the little kid tugged at his glove like he wasn’t real.

 

Small stuff. The kind of night that didn’t leave him bleeding.

 

It felt like the universe had given him a break.

 

—

 

He’d spoken too soon, clearly.

 

The air was crisp and the sky hung heavy with the glow of streetlamps. Peter liked that. Or - well - Spider-Man did.

 

Patrol had been… weirdly quiet so far. Quiet enough for him to start thinking about all the homework sitting untouched on his desk at home, which was just depressing. “Karen,” he murmured, voice just a little muffled inside the mask. “Tell me you’ve got something for me.”

 

“There’s a suspicious activity report three blocks east,” she replied, tone prim but with that faintly cheerful lilt. “Possible armed robbery in progress.”

 

Peter grinned under the mask. “Bingo.”

 

He shifted his trajectory, swinging sharp to the right. The line snapped free, new web catching on a fire escape, momentum vaulting him forward. He could already hear it before he saw it - raised voices and the faint scuffle of feet on concrete.

 

He landed on the wall of the alley above them, sticking there easily as he peered down. Two guys. One clearly the aggressor, the mouth of a gun glinting under the dim light; the other with his hands raised.

 

Peter hated guns.

 

He tried not to think too hard, and dropped in before either of them clocked him. “Hey, buddy,” he called, hands braced on his hips. “If you’re trying to win the ‘World’s Sketchiest Person’ award, I think you’ve got a real shot. Get it? Shot? Ha. I’m hilarious.”

 

The mugger spun, swinging the gun toward him. “Get lost, freak!”

 

Peter tilted his head. “Okay, see, here’s the problem with that: one, rude. Two, I’ve already committed to the bit here, so-”

 

The guy fired before he could finish. It wasn’t a particularly graceful move - or even like it was aimed well, and Peter could’ve dodged it half-asleep - but he was a lot more tired than he’d thought, apparently. He’d misjudged the guy’s aim by just enough that the bullet scraped hard along his ribs before he could twist away.

 

White-hot pain shot through him. “Ow-" He hissed through his teeth, staggering back a step. “Wow, okay, boundaries, man. Ever heard of ‘em?”

 

Blood was already soaking through the suit, warmth slick under the fabric. The man turned to run, but Peter fired and then the guy was plastered to the nearest brick wall, struggling uselessly against the sticky mess.

 

“You know,” he said, a little breathless now, “this would’ve been so much easier if you’d just… not shot me. Just saying.”

 

“Dispatching police to your location,” Karen cut in smoothly.

 

“Thanks, Karen,” he muttered, backing toward the mouth of the alley. His arm throbbed with every step, the kind of pain that made him very aware of how long it’d been since he’d eaten dinner. Not very long. He’d just never stopped being hungry. “Okay, buddy, cops will be here soon. Don’t go anywhere-” He gestured vaguely toward the webbed-up mess. “-not that you can. Great chat, though.”

 

By the time his building came into view, the pain had settled into a dull, rhythmic throb. He landed quietly on his alley-facing bedroom window ledge, easing it open before climbing through. The second his boots hit the carpet, he stripped off the gloves, web-shooters clattering onto the desk.

 

May was working the overnight shift at the hospital. He’d checked his phone before he even left for patrol, so he knew he had hours before she got home. The apartment was still and faintly cool in the way it always was when she wasn’t there. It didn’t feel empty exactly - Peter was used to nights alone - but it did make the air feel a little heavier.

 

He padded into the bathroom, flicking the light on and locking the door out of pure habit. The mirror reflected the ugly streak of blood across his chest where the bullet had caught him. He grimaced, peeling the suit down to his waist and hissing when the fabric tugged at the gash.

 

“Okay, no big deal,” he muttered to himself, already reaching for the first aid kit under the sink. “You’ve done this before. You can totally - ow - totally do this.”

 

Karen had already shut off for the night, leaving him with just the faint hum of the overhead fan. He rinsed the wound out in the sink first, biting the inside of his cheek when the water stung. Red swirled briefly before it washed away down the drain.

 

“Right,” he murmured, grabbing the antiseptic wipes. “This is gonna - yep, yep, that’s awful, great.” He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to get it clean. Infection was worse than pain. Infection needed more calories to burn off.

 

His stitching was clumsy work, but he’d had plenty of practice. The needle bit into skin, sharp enough to make his breath catch, but he kept going - loop, pull, tie. The skin puckered neatly under the thread. He hummed under his breath without really thinking about it.

 

By the time the last knot was tied off, the bleeding had slowed to nothing more than a faint ooze. He taped a bandage over it, taking a deep breath experimentally. Still sore, but manageable.

 

He cleaned up the mess - bloody wipes and packaging tossed into the trash, needle sterilized and put back - before tugging the suit the rest of the way off and swapping it for an old T-shirt and sweatpants. The apartment was still quiet when he stepped out.

 

His bed was warm enough that he sank into it almost immediately, muscles unwinding all at once. He’d deal with the suit tomorrow.

 

For now, the rhythmic ache in his ribs was fading, replaced by the heavy pull of exhaustion. Peter exhaled slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

 

It didn’t take long for sleep to catch him.

 

—

 

Peter woke up telling himself it was back to normal.

Not perfect - because that was never really an option - but at least normal. Normal meant getting up when his alarm went off instead of sleeping until noon, it meant making hot chocolate and actually drinking it instead of staring into the mug until it went cold, it meant brushing his teeth, dragging on a hoodie, and heading out the door to catch the subway. It meant walking into Midtown High and pretending yesterday never happened. Or the day before. Or the week before that.

 

Flash hadn’t seem him at work. He hadn’t gotten shot when he could have very easily avoided it. Yesterday was fine.

 

His ribs still ached, though - just enough to remind him every few minutes that he wasn’t actually fine. A dull, stubborn throb beneath the bandages, and every time he rolled his arm forward or shifted his bag strap, it bit a little sharper. But he ignored it. He was good at ignoring things.

 

Today was going to be fine.

He kept telling himself that.

 

He made it through first period, second, even third - ribs aching but manageable, just a background irritation. His side had practically fixed itself, too. He kept his head down in the halls, avoided any and all conversations-

 

And then lunch came.

 

The cafeteria smelled like overcooked fries and mystery meat. Peter stuck close to Ned, tray in hand, moving toward their usual table. His plan was to keep his head buried in conversation - or failing that, in his lunch - until the day was over. 

 

Which was why he didn’t see Flash until it was too late.

 

It happened in the hallway just outside the cafeteria doors. Peter was walking fast, not even looking up and barely caring even when his sense blared - when something slammed into his right side; a hard, deliberate shoulder check that caught him exactly where the stitches were.

 

The pain was immediate and hot, like someone had shoved a knife between the sutures and twisted. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, a short, startled sound, and staggered a half-step sideways. His bag strap dug into the wound and that made it worse, pressure building under the fabric. By the time he registered what had happened, Flash was already past him, smirking over his shoulder - but the smirk froze halfway.

 

Peter knew why. He could feel it. The warm, slow seep of blood.

 

The stitches had definitely torn.

 

Shit.

 

He glanced down and saw it already blooming through his shirt in a dark, irregular blotch. His stomach lurched. Not because of the blood itself - he’d seen worse - but because he was at school. At school. Where people noticed things.  

 

Ned noticed first. “Uh - dude-”

 

Peter shot him a look, but Ned’s eyes were already darting nervously to Flash, whose face was - shockingly - completely horrified. The guy wasn’t even pretending to be smug anymore. He looked like he’d just accidentally set a puppy on fire.

 

Peter panicked. He swung and marched in the opposite direction.

 

Ned scrambled to keep up, throwing out something about how Peter had spilled juice on himself, which would’ve been a decent cover if the blotch wasn’t perfectly centered over the side of his chest. He made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, and after a quick check to make sure he was alone, he was at the sink, yanking the hem of his shirt up.

 

Yep. Torn open.

 

The gauze underneath was completely red, edges damp where it had soaked through.

 

“Shit-” He hissed the word under his breath and grabbed a wad of rough, cheap toilet paper from the dispenser. It wasn’t great - it stuck to the edges of the wound as soon as it touched - but he pressed it there anyway, wincing hard as he tried to blot away the worst of the blood. He didn’t have time to clean it properly, and his hands were already starting to shake from the thought of someone walking in.

 

His reflection in the mirror looked pale. Sweaty. Definitely not “totally fine.”

 

He dropped his bag onto the grimy tile floor and dug through it until his fingers found the old sweater he kept shoved at the bottom. He didn’t even care that it smelled faintly like gym locker - he pulled it over his head, moving carefully to avoid reopening the stitches more, the fabric sticking slightly where it brushed against the damp patch on his shirt.

 

It still throbbed - probably would for the rest of the day - but at least it wasn’t visible anymore.  

 

He shoved his bag closed, straightened up, and took a slow breath before heading back into the hallway, already pretending nothing had happened. He’d deal with the bleeding later. Right now, the priority was making sure no one - especially Flash - made a bigger deal out of it than it already was.

 

Whatever. Maybe he’d just… forget about it. Flash wasn’t that observant, right?

 

—

 

Flash hadn’t meant for it to happen. The shoulder-check was muscle memory at this point - hallway move, easy, classic. Practically a crime not to do, at this point. Parker was small enough that he barely put up resistance. You hit him right and he staggered, maybe bumped into the wall, maybe dropped his books if you were lucky. It wasn’t art, but it worked.

 

Except this time Parker didn’t just stumble. This time he winced.

 

Not the regular kind of wince, either, not the little ones; this was sharp, instinctive, like Parker had swallowed a sound before it could get out.

 

And then there was the blood.

 

Flash saw it - bright red, seeping through the side of Parker’s shirt, staining the cotton before he could yank his hoodie closer. Not much, but enough to notice. Enough to make Flash’s stomach twist in a way it never did when he was trying to mess with the guy.

 

And then Parker bolted.

 

Gone into the bathroom like a shot, eyes too wide, one hand clamped against his side. Flash stood in the hall a little too long, pretending he hadn’t seen. Pretending it didn’t matter.

 

It didn’t matter.

 

Peter Parker wasn’t his problem.

 

—

 

Peter almost even know why he was still showing up to the bodega three days in a row when he could barely see straight. 

 

But what else could he do? He needed the money and needed even more to feel like he wasn’t just another mouth to feed, like he wasn’t taking every scrap out of her hands and giving nothing back. Spider-Man didn’t pay. Hero work didn’t pay. Rent did. Groceries did. The electric bill did. So Peter swallowed down his excuses, packed an extra protein bar from Ned’s locker stash into his backpack to keep his stomach from caving in, and dragged himself straight from Midtown to the bodega.

 

And then Flash came back.

 

Peter almost didn’t believe it when he heard the bell again the next day and looked up to see him standing in the doorway. No friends this time. Just Flash, looking around like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing.

 

Peter bristled before he could stop himself. His hands clenched on the counter, because Flash had come back to rub salt in the wound and Peter’s shame from yesterday was still raw, still burning, and he couldn’t take it again.

 

“If you’re not buying anything,” Peter said sharply, “you need to leave.”

 

Flash raised his eyebrows. “Damn. Is that how you treat customers? Pretty shitty service, penis.”

 

Peter’s jaw tightened. His knuckles went white where they gripped the counter. He wanted to throw something, anything, just to make Flash shut up, but he held still. “Get out, Flash. I’m serious. If you’re hovering, it’s just going to look like you’re just planning to steal stuff.”

 

“Yeah?” Flash said, taking out his phone. “We both know the only one poor enough here to need to steal stuff if you, Parker. Maybe I should get this on video in advance. But I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be working here, are you?”

 

Peter’s heart stuttered.

 

He didn’t even have to turn his head to know his boss was listening. The silence behind him was heavy, thick with awareness.

 

“Peter,” his boss said after a moment, voice flat. “That true?”

 

Peter’s throat closed up. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t say anything, because the second he admitted it, it was over. 

 

But the silence was answer enough.

 

His boss sighed. “I can’t afford trouble, especially if you're bringing it here. You’re done. Grab your stuff.”

 

The world tilted. Peter’s eyes burned hot, humiliation slicing through his chest sharp enough to make his breath hitch. He almost hit Flash. He wanted to, for just a second - his fist curling, his body tensing like muscle memory - but he didn’t.

 

He grabbed his bag from behind the counter, shoved past Flash hard enough to knock his shoulder into the doorframe, and slammed the glass door shut behind him.

 

He didn’t look back.

 

—

 

Flash didn’t feel smug anymore. Not even close.

 

He hadn’t meant - well, okay, he had meant to give Parker a hard time, but that was just instinct. That was what they did. Parker snapped, Flash snapped back. That was the game. It wasn’t supposed to get him fired.

 

But when Parker’s face went pale and his eyes got wet, Flash’s stomach dropped into his shoes. 

 

He wanted to say something. He really did. But Parker’s expression as he pushed past him - angry, brittle, like he’d been hollowed out - shut him up before he could even get a word out.

 

Flash stood in the bodega doorway with his phone still in his hand, feeling like the world’s biggest jackass, and for once, he didn’t laugh.

 

—

 

Flash had been trying not to think about it.

 

Really, he had. He told himself he was busy, he had soccer practice, he had video games, he had… whatever else he could shove in front of his brain to keep it from replaying that moment over and over. Peter’s face. The way he’d looked at him - not just mad, not just the normal Parker scowl when Flash had poked at him in class - but burning. 

 

It had been sitting in Flash’s stomach for days now, pressing down whenever he tried to laugh at something dumb one of his friends said.

 

He’d laughed that day, too. God, he’d laughed. Because what else was he supposed to do when his friends burst out laughing at the sight of Parker working behind some grimy counter? He had to laugh or they’d start in on him, and that wasn’t happening. And sure, maybe he’d tossed one in too, something about Peter pocketing change - which, okay, fine, maybe was a bit much, but come on. That’s what they did. That was normal. That was the role.

 

He hadn’t expected Peter to… bristle like that.

 

Flash had just been curious. He really had. He’d been acting weird and bleeding at school, and he’d gone back by himself because it had been chewing at him - the bruises and the blood, the image of Parker, small and tired, practically drowning in that ugly work vest. He wanted to see it again, because Parker was supposed to be… Parker. Awkward, too-smart, always-has-an-answer Parker. Not Peter behind a counter, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, looking like he could barely stand upright.

 

So Flash had just… walked in. No jokes this time, just looking. Trying to make sense of it.

 

And Peter had snapped, and Flash hadn’t even meant anything by it when he’d thrown back that line about customer service - he couldn’t not poke. And it hadn’t even been a real threat about filming him or whatever; it was just words to keep the upper hand, something to watch Parker squirm a little, to show him he wasn’t rattled. He hadn’t actually planned to whip his phone out, hadn’t thought it would matter - except the guy behind the counter had heard. And then the boss had come out, looking all tight-lipped and sweaty, and suddenly Parker wasn’t arguing anymore, he was just… standing there, still as anything while his boss said something like, “You didn’t tell me you were underage,” and, “I can’t risk it,” and, “I’m sorry, kid.”

 

And then Peter’s eyes had gone glassy, his hands tight around the strap of his bag, and Flash had felt his stomach drop.

 

He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t meant for it to go like that.

 

Now, days later, Flash kept catching himself watching him in class. Just watching. Not jeering or throwing a comment, not whispering to the guy next to him. Just… watching. Because Peter looked different. Tighter. His shoulders hunched more. 

 

He’d tried, once, to catch him after the bell. He’d even opened his mouth, ready with some joke-turned-apology, some way to half-laugh it off and then slide in a “hey, didn’t mean to screw you over.” But then Peter had turned, and Flash had seen that look again. The one that burned. The one that said don’t even try it, and Flash had frozen. Sidestepped, literally, into the flow of the hallway traffic and pretended he’d never been aiming for Parker at all.

It wasn’t like he could just say it. How do you even start? Hey, sorry I got you fired. My bad, I was just being an asshole in the way I always am, but this time it actually had consequences. Yeah, no. That would go over great.

 

So he kept… circling.

 

He’d catch himself lingering near Parker’s locker. He’d find excuses to end up behind him in line at lunch, like maybe proximity would magically give him the courage to speak. He even hovered once outside the chem lab, waiting for him to come out, but when Peter finally did, he looked so strung out, so tired, that Flash had just… ducked away. He couldn’t. He couldn’t be the reason Parker looked that bad, right?

 

And yet, he was.

 

He didn’t tell his friends. Of course he didn’t. They wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t understand why his stomach twisted when he thought about it. They’d just laugh more, and this… wasn’t funny.  

 

Not when Flash, for the first time, noticed how thin he really was.

 

He wanted to say something. He wanted to fix it, so he waited for the right moment and for Parker to not look like he wanted to punch him, or worse - not look like he wanted to cry. For a second when maybe an apology wouldn’t sound so hollow.

 

The problem was, he wasn’t sure that second existed.

 

—

 

Peter Parker was surprisingly busy for a nerd.

 

Flash had been noticing it more lately. Not on purpose, obviously. He had better things to do than keep tabs on him. But when someone keeps showing up late - or disappearing entirely - he started to pick up on it. Which… not that he was like… keeping tabs on the guy or anything, but Flash was observant.

 

Take acadeca. Parker was late again, and MJ was tearing into him for it. Same routine as always: she had her hands on her hips, doing that unimpressed stare like she was his mom. Or aunt, or whatever. And Parker muttered something low, probably some lame excuse. Whatever it was, it worked. MJ rolled her eyes and let him off with a warning. 

 

Again.

 

Flash sat back and watched, sour. How the hell did Parker keep pulling that off? He wasn’t popular, not by a long shot. He had, what, two friends? That was if he counted MJ, which Flash almost didn’t, because she barely tolerated him. He didn’t hang out after school, didn’t post pictures online, didn’t have cousins swarming his house on weekends. He didn’t even talk about family. Every time Ned asked about his aunt, Parker brushed it off. Always “she’s busy” or “I haven’t seen her much lately.”

 

So where the hell was he going all the time?

 

Flash figured maybe Parker had a different job. Maybe a second one that he’d been working, or maybe he’d gotten something else to cover the fact that Flash had accidentally gotten him fired. That wouldn’t be shocking. It would explain the tired eyes and the disappearing act.

 

Except everyone already knew about the rumor that Peter worked at Stark Industries, which was the biggest load of crap Flash had ever heard in his life.

 

Nobody believed it. Everyone said they didn’t, at least. It was too stupid. Parker, of all people, working for Tony Stark? No way. But then, sometimes…

 

Sometimes Flash wondered.

 

Because Parker had been poor. Actually, visibly poor. He still was, really; Flash saw the duct-taped sneakers, the shredded backpack, the way his calculator looked like it had crawled out of a dumpster. All of that had been Parker’s thing for years. And then - suddenly - he wasn’t.

 

He still wasn’t great. But every now and then he had a new bag, or new shoes, or a binder that actually zipped without fraying at the corners. Flash had noticed, even if nobody else had, because for some reason he couldn’t stop watching.  When he'd overheard Leeds asking where he got his new bag - not that Flash was listening, or anything - Peter had shrugged and said it was a gift.

 

So maybe Parker really was working somewhere else. Just not Stark Industries. Something else. Something he didn’t want anyone to know about.

 

That thought gnawed at him.

 

Because it didn’t explain why Parker had quit band and robotics way before he started talking about Tony Stark. Didn’t explain why the bruises kept showing up, or why Flash had seen blood when he slammed into him.

 

Didn’t explain why he looked so damn tired all the time.

 

—

 

Flash tried not to care. He really did.

 

Parker wasn’t his problem.

 

If the guy wanted to get himself beat up, fine. If he wanted to vanish after school, fine. Flash had better things to think about than Parker’s sad little life.

 

But then the image would creep back in. That sharp flinch when Flash’s shoulder had clipped his, the sudden dark bloom on his shirt, the bathroom door swinging closed behind him.

 

Flash knew the look of someone hiding something.

 

He’d been dragged to enough of his dad’s “business meetings” to know the signs. He still remembered walking into the wrong hotel suite once, looking for the bathroom, and seeing a woman there with her lipstick smeared, her eyes blank, the air heavy with something Flash didn’t have words for at the time but knew in his gut wasn’t right. He’d turned around and walked back out, sick to his stomach, and hadn’t said a word since.

 

That memory clung, the same way Parker’s bloodstain did.

 

It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t. But Flash couldn’t shake the way his chest tightened when he thought about it.

 

—

 

Then there were the cars.

 

That was the part Flash kept circling back to, late at night when he was supposed to be asleep.

 

He’d seen Parker step into one more than once. Not a cab, not a beat-up family car, not even the subway like Flash knew he’d been taking since middle school. No - these were black cars. Sleek. Shiny. The kind that screamed money the second you laid eyes on them. The kind his dad took when he didn’t want to be seen but still wanted to feel important.

 

Flash had noticed. The cars always had tinted windows. Always pulled up right at the curb, Parker slipping in like it was the most normal thing in the world.

 

And that was the weirdest part.

 

Because Parker was still poor. He was. That wasn’t Flash being mean, it was just fact. Poor enough to duct-tape his shoes. Poor enough to avoid changing for gym because he didn’t have spares. Poor enough that half the time he looked like he hadn’t eaten in a day.

 

So what the hell was he doing anywhere near cars like that?

 

It didn’t make sense.

 

Was it actually Tony Stark? Had Flash been wrong the whole time, and Parker actually was telling the truth? Or was it something else? Something worse? Flash didn’t know. What he did know was that Parker kept showing up with bruises, with cuts, with blood on his shirt that he tried to hide. He knew Parker was always late, always exhausted, always slipping away.

 

He knew Parker wasn’t his problem. He told himself that over and over again.

 

But still - he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop picturing Parker ducking his head, hoodie zipped up too tight, sliding into one of those fancy black cars with tinted windows. And wondering, against his own better judgment:

 

Was Parker in danger?

 

And who the hell kept picking him up?

 

Notes:

tws for mentioned injury/stab wound/infection, but nothing graphic

starting off nice and easy?? no death?? aunt may is alive in one of my fics for once?? crazy

Chapter 2: lab time

Summary:

Peter was basically melted against the cafeteria table by the time lunch rolled around.

It wasn’t graceful. His cheek was squished half against his folded arm, his other arm sprawled across the table. His eyelids stung, and his body hadn’t forgiven him for yesterday’s patrol even a little. Every muscle still hummed with the faint leftover ache of swinging and landing, bruises blooming under his sleeves.

Notes:

yayyy im back. omg. theyre so dumb and i love flash bc how are you so smart but so stupid at the same time

Peter was basically melted against the cafeteria table by the time lunch rolled around.

 

It wasn’t graceful. His cheek was squished half against his folded arm, his other arm sprawled across the table. His eyelids stung, and his body hadn’t forgiven him for yesterday’s patrol even a little. Every muscle still hummed with the faint leftover ache of swinging and landing, bruises blooming under his sleeves.

 

The problem with being Spider-Man wasn’t just the getting stabbed, or the bruises, or the constant paranoia that someone would figure it out. It was the hangover feeling after. His body burned through energy when it healed, and if he didn’t eat enough - if he didn’t sleep enough - he wound up like this. Sagging, foggy, half a second behind reality.

 

Across from him, MJ was pulling apart a granola bar with careful precision as she eyed him. Ned had a tray in front of him that was mostly pizza and milk, which Peter envied with something approaching desperation, but not enough to lift his head.

 

“You gonna survive over there?” Ned asked, voice low, but with that little tilt of amusement he always got when Peter was being pathetic.

 

Peter muttered something that was probably words, though even he wasn’t sure what he’d meant.

 

“Uh-huh,” Ned said, already shifting his chair a little closer. A second later, Peter felt the nudge against his shoulder, and leaned, sliding sideways until his temple was propped against Ned’s shoulder.  Ned was warm - like, furnace warm, and he didn’t complain as Peter leaned against him. He never did. In fact, he shifted just enough to make it easier, resting his elbow on the back of Peter’s chair and bracing himself so Peter wouldn’t accidentally slip right off.

 

MJ raised an eyebrow from across the table, chewing slowly. “Should I give you two a minute?”

 

Peter cracked one eye open, fighting through the haze just long enough to glare at her. “Don’t.” His voice came out low and scratchy.

 

MJ smirked. “What? I’m just asking.”

 

“You’re asking with that face,” Peter muttered, closing his eyes again. “The face means judgment.”

 

“Everything’s judgment with me,” MJ said easily, shrugging. “You should know that by now.”

 

Peter groaned into Ned’s shoulder. He was hovering on the edge of an almost-nap, the cafeteria noise blurring into white static around him - when he felt Ned’s finger poke at the side of his ribs.

 

Peter twitched.

 

“Stop,” he muttered. Ned poked him again, deliberately. “Seriously,” Peter muttered. “Don’t make me bite you.”

 

That made MJ tilt her head, lips twitching like she was holding back a grin. Ned grinned outright. “Do it. I dare you.”

 

“Not a dare,” he said, eyes still shut. “It’s a promise.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Ned said. “What if I just jam a finger in your mouth first?”

 

That forced Peter’s eyes open. His brain was too foggy to even censor himself before he said unthinkingly, “Joke’s on you,” he started flatly. “I'd be into that.”

 

There was a sharp, startled snort from across the table. MJ choked on her granola bar, covering her mouth with her hand as she tried and failed to hold in her amusement, and it took Peter a beat too long to remember she was sitting there.

 

Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He sat up halfway, shoulders tight, already regretting breathing. “Wait - no - that’s not-”

 

“Dude.” Ned’s voice was serious, which didn’t match the way his face was pink from holding back laughter. “It’s fine. I’m not ashamed of you, Peter. I accept you. I know you’re a homiesexual. Bromantic. Homosocial. Bromiesexual. Heterobromantic-”

 

“Stop,” Peter hissed as he shoved at him, groaning. “You’re the worst. Actually the worst.”

 

Ned leaned dramatically closer until Peter smacked his shoulder and pushed him halfway off the bench. MJ’s laughter spilled out in little snorts she wasn’t even trying to smother anymore.

 

Peter put his hands over his face. “I hate both of you.”

 

“You don’t,” Ned said easily, straightening his hoodie and taking another bite of his pizza like nothing had happened. “You’d die without me.”

 

“Not true.”

 

“Completely true.” Peter groaned into his hands, muffled and desperate. He thought maybe if he pressed hard enough, he could sink straight through the table and disappear into the floor - and then Ned’s voice cut off, mid-sentence. “Hey,” he said, eyebrows pulling together as his gaze shifted over Peter’s shoulder. “Uh. I think Flash is staring at you.”

 

Peter paused mid-groan, hands still half covering his face. That was not a sentence you wanted to hear in the cafeteria. Slowly, he pulled his hands down and turned his head.

 

And yeah. Ned was right.

 

Flash was sitting on the outskirts of one of the bigger, louder tables - a whole pack of guys tossing fries at each other, a couple of girls taking selfies. Flash was usually right in the thick of that, loud and annoying and practically vibrating with the need to be noticed.  

 

But now he was kinda… quiet.

 

He sat a little hunched, tray untouched in front of him, his jaw set. His expression was the usual scowl, but the longer Peter looked, the less convinced he was that it was just the default Flash-face. Because he wasn’t talking or smirking or anything.

 

He was just… staring. At Peter.

 

Peter straightened automatically, spine going rigid. The fog of exhaustion thinned just enough for his instincts to prick at the back of his skull. He narrowed his eyes, trying to read what exactly Flash’s deal was. Across the room, Flash squinted harder. Then, abruptly, he looked away, lips pressed tight.

 

Peter’s stomach flipped.

 

“Huh,” Ned said, still watching. “That’s weird. What’d you do to him?”

 

“I didn’t do anything!” Peter hissed, too loud, then winced and dropped his voice. “He’s the one who’s mean to me!”

 

Ned snorted into his milk carton, nearly spilling it. “I mean, yeah. But, like… what does he think you did to him?”

 

“I… have no idea,” Peter murmured, eyes flicking back to where Flash now resolutely focused on stabbing his pizza slice with a plastic fork.

 

MJ lazily peeled the wrapper off the second half of her granola bar. “Maybe he just realized he peaked in fifth grade.”

 

“Maybe,” Peter said, though the word sat uneasily on his tongue.

 

Because Flash hadn’t looked smug. He hadn’t looked victorious, or like he’d gotten the upper hand. He’d looked - Peter struggled to put a word to it - uneasy. Maybe even guilty.

 

And that was weirder than anything.

 

Peter tried to refocus on his sandwich, but the bread felt like cardboard in his mouth and all he could hear was the little click of Flash’s fork stabbing into that sad triangle of pizza. Over and over. Like a tiny, plastic guillotine.

 

It shouldn’t bother him. Flash was always weird. Flash was always looking at him, if only to find new ways to insult him. But that was different. That was the predictable, safe kind of weird. This was… this was worse. Was he actually going to tell Morita that he’d had a job? Was he trying to figure out how he could abuse that blackmail?

 

Ned leaned back, arms folded behind his head like he was about to solve a case. “Okay. Theory number one: you borrowed something from him and forgot to give it back.”

 

Peter blinked. “Like what? ”

 

“Like… a pencil. A hoodie. His dignity. People hold grudges about that kind of stuff.”

 

MJ snorted, finally biting into her granola bar. “Yeah, I’m sure Flash is devastated about his missing pencil.”

 

Peter rubbed at his face. “I didn’t borrow anything from him.”

 

“Okay, theory number two,” Ned continued, counting on his fingers now. “He’s jealous.”

 

Peter choked on his sandwich. “Jealous? Of me?”

 

Ned shrugged. “You’ve got good grades, a mysterious social life, a new haircut-”

 

“This isn’t a haircut, it’s just… shorter because my aunt threatened me with scissors while I was asleep,” Peter muttered. It wasn’t because he didn’t have the cash to blow on a haircut and May had almost murdered him last time he’d tried to DIY a haircut.

 

“Exactly,” Ned said, as though Peter had just proven his point. “Style. Intimidation factor. Flash probably feels threatened.”

 

MJ leaned her chin on her hand, unimpressed. “Or maybe he finally just feels bad for you and it’s destroyed his entertainment.”

 

…Was that true? Did Flash need him to be his personal punchline? Maybe he did feel guilty. And if he did - if Flash wasn’t yelling now, wasn’t mocking - what did that even mean?

 

He risked another glance.

 

Flash was still resolutely not looking at him, jaw tight, shoulders hunched. Peter’s stomach knotted.

 

Ned lowered his voice. “Or… and hear me out… maybe he found out you’re Spider-Man.”

 

Peter’s heart stopped.

 

Ned’s grin widened at the look on Peter’s face. “Kidding! Kidding. Unless…?”

 

Peter shoved his tray an inch away from him, palms damp. “Ned-”

 

MJ gave him a flat look. “Relax. If Flash had two brain cells to rub together, he’d be charging people for a live-stream of your unmasking right now. He wouldn’t just be… staring. He’d be cashing in.”

 

That was true. That was - comforting? Sort of? Except Peter’s pulse still wouldn’t slow down, because something about the way Flash had looked at him lingered and pressed under his skin like a bruise.

 

It hadn’t been smug. It hadn’t been cruel. It had been something else, something Peter couldn’t name, and that terrified him more than if Flash had stood on the lunch table and announced, “Hey everyone, Parker’s a poor loser who's too cheap for the school lunch!”

 

At least that would have made sense.

 

—

 

Flash wasn’t used to feeling guilty.

 

Not like this, anyway. He’d felt guilty before - like when he’d copied the answers to a math worksheet from some random website and gotten them all wrong, or when his mother found his half-finished protein shake under the couch three weeks later and banned him from using the blender for a month. But that kind of guilt wasn’t like this. That was just surface-level, oh-crap-my-bad guilt. This was… deeper. This was like a knot in his stomach, heavy and sour, and it refused to go away no matter how many sets he did at the gym or how loud he turned up his music.

 

He kept replaying that moment at the bodega in his head. Flash hadn’t even meant it.  He hadn’t even realized what he was saying. It was just his dumb mouth running again, default mode: tease, provoke, laugh. He’d thought it was harmless. Peter always bounced back, always threw something snappy right back at him. That was their thing.

 

But this time, it hadn’t been funny.

 

Flash had actually gotten him fired.

 

And okay, sure, maybe he didn’t know why Peter had the job in the first place. He didn’t have to work - his aunt worked, they weren’t rich but they weren’t, like, destitute, right? But the way Peter had stalked out of there, jaw tight and shoulders stiff, it had felt… wrong. Like Flash had stomped on something delicate without realizing it was there.

 

Now Flash was stuck with this ugly weight in his chest, and the thought of actually apologizing - like, walking up to Peter and saying the words ‘I’m sorry’ - was unbearable. He could already imagine it: Peter narrowing his eyes, crossing his arms, delivering some stupid snarky remark that would make Flash feel about three inches tall. No thanks. He wasn’t signing up for that humiliation.

 

So instead, Flash came up with a plan.

 

If he couldn’t say sorry, he could… show it.

 

Good deeds. People liked good deeds, right? If he just… did enough nice things, Peter would get the message. He’d figure it out. He’d know Flash wasn’t actually an asshole, not deep down.

 

It couldn’t be that hard.

 

The first opportunity came at lunch. Flash had been thinking about food again - he always thought about food - and it occurred to him that maybe Peter needed more of it. The guy was tiny. Like, seriously. He barely cleared Flash’s shoulder, and his arms looked like they’d snap if he carried more than a backpack. Maybe that was why he’d been working at the bodega - because he couldn’t afford real food.

 

Peter slid his tray onto the far side of the table, next to Ned and MJ, who always acted like Flash didn’t exist even though they sat at the same cluster of tables every day. Flash didn’t care. He was undeterred. This was the perfect chance.

 

Peter had his usual sad little sandwich, one apple, and - Flash noticed with a jolt - no drink. Perfect. He’d swoop in, provide. He had a bottle of Gatorade in his bag. Grape flavor, the good one.

 

Flash cleared his throat, real casual. "Hey, Penis." Peter froze. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyebrows arching. Flash ignored the look and shoved the Gatorade across the table. "Here. You forgot a drink."

 

Peter stared at the bottle like it was a bomb. "…What?"

 

"It’s Gatorade," Flash explained.  

 

Ned squinted suspiciously. MJ didn’t even bother to look up from her book. "What did you put in it?" she asked flatly.

 

"Nothing!" Flash said, maybe a little too loud. "It’s just a Gatorade! God, what do you think I am, some kind of psycho?"

 

Peter’s jaw worked, eyes flicking over his face with a confused squint. Finally, he muttered, "Thanks, but I’m good," and went back to picking at his sandwich.

 

Flash blinked. Okay. That… hadn’t gone to plan. He pushed the Gatorade a little closer. "Seriously, just take it."

 

Peter didn’t even look up. "I don’t want it."

 

And that was that.

 

The second attempt came the next day. If Peter wouldn’t accept food or drinks, then maybe Flash had to think bigger. More… heroic.

 

That was how he found himself trailing Peter between classes. He just followed him down the hall, hovering a few steps behind. When some sophomore brushed too close, Flash cut him a glare until the kid scurried away. When someone shoved past, Flash stepped in front, puffing his chest like he was ready to fight.

 

Peter noticed almost immediately. He spun on his heel outside the chem lab, scowling. "What are you doing?"

 

Flash blinked. "Walking to class."

 

"You’re following me."

 

"You think I care enough about you to follow you, Parker?" Flash said instead of ‘I’m sorry I got you fired. I feel bad, please make it stop. "You wish."

 

Peter’s expression darkened. He looked exhausted, more than annoyed. For a second, Flash thought he might actually yell. But instead, Peter just pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something about not having time for this, and walked away faster.

 

Flash stood there, feeling dumb.

 

Fucking Parker. Of course he needed to make everything difficult.

 

—

 

Peter tried not to sigh too loud when Happy pulled up at the curb. 

 

He slipped into the back seat of the car, shutting the door behind him, and felt a bubble of relief rise up before he even meant for it to.

 

It was ridiculous - shameful, almost - how relieved he felt just being in the car. Just sitting somewhere enclosed, clean, quiet. Away from the press of the bodega, away from the smell of burnt coffee and stale chips, away from the sound of people in the hallways and the silence of the empty apartment back home. Away from the endless reminder of how short the rent was running, how tight the food budget was, how heavy the guilt sat every time he saw May’s tired smile.

 

And away from the fact that he had no idea how he was supposed to keep this up.

 

Flash’s face swam up in his mind again, and Peter wrinkled his nose, tipping his head against the window like the glass might cool the rush of heat in his cheeks. It was humiliating. Completely humiliating. He could still hear the laughter - Flash’s friends doubled over, the smack of a palm against the counter as if Peter being there in that cheap bodega uniform was the funniest punchline in the world.

 

And maybe it was. Maybe it was hilarious, the way Spider-Man couldn’t even keep the lights on at home without scrubbing sticky counters and ringing up beer purchases with hands that still had faint cuts from patrol.

 

He should’ve laughed along, maybe. Played it off. But instead, all he could remember was the way his stomach curled in on itself, heavy and sour, as shame pooled like molten lead in his chest. He adjusted his backpack strap again, the weight making the muscles in his shoulder twitch, and forced himself to think of something else. Anything else.

 

Like food.

 

That was safe, wasn’t it? Thinking about food. He hadn’t eaten lunch - he hadn’t even eaten much of breakfast, come to think of it - and the prospect of the tower cafeteria was making his mouth water just from the thought alone. Actual food, not dollar-menu grease. Not skipping meals and lying about being “too busy” when May looked at him funny.

 

Tony Stark fed people well. Tony Stark had resources.

 

Peter’s stomach growled, and he pressed his arm against it like that might quiet it down.

 

For just a second, he let himself imagine it: plates stacked high, the rich smells filling the lab when Pepper inevitably sent something down to remind Tony to eat, or when FRIDAY prompted them out of habit. The quiet relief of not having to count every bite, of not having to feel guilty for clearing a plate.

 

But then guilt rushed in anyway, sharp and cold, and Peter winced before the car had even pulled into the ramp, because May was going to come home to an empty apartment. Again. He was going to be here, in Tony’s lab, surrounded by tech and food and warmth, while she dragged herself home from a long shift to silence and takeout menus she never actually ordered from. He could see her already - setting her bag down, sighing as she slipped off her shoes, glancing at the table with its pile of overdue bills. Alone.

 

And he hated himself for how much lighter his chest felt anyway. For how desperately he needed this.

 

He swallowed hard, letting his forehead rest against the window as the lights of the city blurred past.

 

Maybe he could make it up to her somehow. Maybe he could get another job, one with better pay. Something steady, something that would mean she didn’t have to worry. Something that meant she could come home and not have to glance at the red lettering that screamed “PAST DUE” every time they got a new bill in the mail.

 

The thought twisted his stomach again.

 

What about asking Mr. Stark?

 

He froze.

 

The idea felt like it had slunk out of the darkest corner of his brain without permission, but it was there now, staring him down. He could ask Mr. Stark about making the internship paid. Or - he could ask about actual lab work. Maybe one day a week. Actual wages.

 

The thought was intoxicating for half a heartbeat. To be able to hand May cash without the sour taste of shame. To help. To finally feel like he wasn’t just… draining resources or lying to her face about working illegally and risking his scholarship.

 

But the second half of that heartbeat was worse.

 

Because how could he ask that? He was already getting away with murder - wandering around a billion-dollar lab like he belonged there, screwing around with multimillion-dollar tech, eating food he hadn’t paid for. If anything, he owed Mr. Stark money. He owed him ten lifetimes of debt just for the kindness already handed to him without question.

 

The idea of asking - of admitting why - made his skin crawl.

 

Shame curled in his gut like a fist closing tight.

 

Mr. Stark would start asking questions. He’d want to know why Peter was so desperate. He’d want to know why Peter was running himself ragged, why he looked half-dead at school, why his hands shook sometimes when he was too hungry.

 

And Peter couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t stand the thought of Mr. Stark looking at him with pity.

 

Besides, May would never let him hear the end of it if she found out. She already didn’t like him leaning too hard on Mr. Stark for “internship stuff.” If she knew he was asking for money? No. No way.

 

So, no. He wouldn’t ask.

 

He’d find something else. Another job. Something.

 

But that didn’t mean he was going to stop himself from eating whatever Mr. Stark bought.

 

The car rolled to a stop, and Peter exhaled as the door unlocked. He swung his backpack over one shoulder and tried not to look too eager, even though the anticipation of food and warmth and tech was crawling under his skin. The labs. Food. Quiet. Mr. Stark.

 

A part of him - some small, shamefully loud part - was looking forward to it more than anything else in the world.

 

By the time Peter finally made it up to the lab, he was dragging his feet, eyelids gritty and heavy, body sluggish. Not the bad kind of exhaustion - he wasn’t about to collapse face-first into the floor - but the kind that came from trying to balance too many plates at once. Patrol, homework, school, pretending to be normal, helping May out at home, pretending he wasn’t stressed about money, and then still somehow keeping his grades intact. It was… a lot, sometimes.

 

At least tonight was lab night. That thought alone had been enough to carry him up the elevator, to override the soreness still lingering in his ribs. 

 

FRIDAY hadn’t said a word about his vitals, which meant he’d finally healed enough to pass under the AI’s radar. He hadn’t even gone out last night; he’d forced himself to stay in and to skip patrol entirely for once, just to let his body knit itself back together. It had felt wrong, sitting there knowing there were probably people out there who needed him, but if he didn’t give himself at least one night, he’d burn out completely. He couldn’t save anyone if he collapsed in an alley from low blood sugar.

 

The doors slid open and the familiar bright wash of the lab lights hit him. Tony was already there, leaning over a bench.

 

“Hey, kid,” Tony said without looking up, voice casual. “How was school?”

 

Peter groaned, dragging himself fully into the room and letting his bag slump to the floor. “Boring,” he said automatically, stretching the word out. He half-flopped, half-folded into his usual chair at the side of the workbench.

 

And then - oh. His nose caught it. Food. Warm, rich, tomato-sweet and doughy and absolutely perfect. Pizza.

 

He perked up instantly, head snapping around. “Wait. Did you get pizza again?”

 

Tony barked a laugh. “You’re like a bloodhound with that nose. Don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned.”

 

Peter wrinkled his nose, already feeling the little curl of shame in his chest at the comparison, because he wasn’t a dog, but then Tony waved him over with a casual flick of his wrist, and the warmth of that gesture immediately smothered the embarrassment.

 

“Here. Pepperoni,” Tony said, sliding a box toward him. Peter made a face, recoiling slightly. Tony laughed again. “Relax, kid. Just kidding. Got you the usual. You’re such a baby.”

 

Peter huffed, defensive, already pulling the box closer and popping the lid. The glorious scent of plain cheese pizza - just cheese, no peppers, no pepperoni grease, nothing to overload his senses - hit him square in the face. “I’ve got enhanced senses,” Peter pointed out, grabbing a slice before Tony could change his mind. “Capsaicin and spider DNA don’t mix. That’s not my faut-”

 

“Sure, Underoos,” Tony cut in with a snort, and reached over without warning to ruffle his hair.

 

Peter froze for half a second, whole body stuttering at the casual touch, before forcing himself not to melt into a puddle on the floor. His knees nearly gave out anyway. His chest went warm, buzzing under his ribs, and the smell of hot food and engine grease and Tony’s cologne wrapped around him all at once.

 

He managed to keep his cool by very carefully dropping into the chair next to Tony’s, balancing the pizza on his knee and pretending his brain wasn’t busy rebooting. Tony didn’t move away, didn’t put space between them, which was its own small miracle.

 

Don’t let your hero worship show here, Parker. Don’t be weird.

 

Peter grabbed another slice, this one with more confidence, and edged just a little closer, angling himself to peer at whatever Tony was working on. The blue light from the projection reflected in his eyes, and he chewed quickly so he could swallow and ask before the moment passed.

 

“What’re you working on?” he asked, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t dying to know.

 

Tony flicked his eyes to him, one brow raised. “This? Just a project.”

 

Peter nodded, waiting.

 

Tony sighed, lips tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, fine. Suit interface upgrade. Yours, actually. That heads-up display of yours? Thinking about ways to make it less… seizure-inducing.”

 

Peter grinned, wide and bright, and nearly dropped his pizza in his lap in his rush to lean closer. “Really? That’s - that’s awesome! I mean, not that it’s seizure-inducing, it’s actually super intuitive already, but like, the refresh rate sometimes gets a little jumpy if I’m swinging fast-”

 

“Exactly,” Tony said, pointing at him with a screwdriver. “So I’m smoothing it out. Better frame pacing, less chance of you face-planting because the overlay lagged a half-second behind reality.”

 

Peter snorted around a bite of pizza. “That happened once.”

 

“Once too many.”

 

Peter laughed, warmth seeping deeper into his chest, drowning out the exhaustion for a while. By the time Peter leaned back in his chair, there was only one slice left in the box. He blinked at it, stomach twisting. He’d just eaten an entire pizza, single-handedly. The kind of thing he couldn’t let himself do at home.

 

The hunger was gone, replaced by a kind of quiet devastation. He wanted the last slice, but at the same time, the thought of eating more made his stomach curl. He didn’t want to waste it. He hated wasting it. Pizza like this didn’t come around every day.

 

He stared at it too long, considering whether he should just force himself, when Tony shrugged like it was nothing.

 

“Take it home with you,” he said. “You’re the one who likes boring pizza, not the classics.”

 

Peter’s head snapped up. “Boring?”

 

Tony grinned. “Yeah, boring. Cheese pizza. Vanilla ice cream. Acoustic guitar covers. Boring.”

 

Peter snorted, finally tearing his eyes away from the box. “Sure. Classic. You mean old. You probably only eat pepperoni ‘cause you’ve been alive since pepperoni was invented.”

 

“Watch it, kid.”

 

“Bet you listen to, like, 80’s music unironically.”

 

“Bet I could have FRIDAY pull up your playlist right now,” Tony fired back, smirk sharpening. “Don’t test me.”

 

Peter sputtered, nearly choking on the crust. “That’s - that’d be a violation of privacy!”

 

“Mm-hm.” Tony raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Then don’t sass me.”

 

Peter laughed, still trying not to choke, and for the first time all week, the knot in his chest loosened. Flash was still an asshole, his homework was still unfinished, May was still home alone with bills Peter couldn’t fix. But right here, in the hum of the lab lights and the smell of solder and pizza grease, none of it felt quite so heavy.

 

And even if he’d never unload his teenage drama on Mr. Stark, even if he kept it all carefully folded and hidden where it belonged, it was enough to sit here, warm and full and laughing.

 

—

 

Flash had never really thought about apologies. Not, like, seriously. He usually just… didn’t bother. If he screwed up, people either forgot about it eventually, or he distracted them until they did. Sometimes he just made a joke big enough that people laughed and it erased the awkwardness, even if nothing was fixed. That was sort of his whole strategy for life. Keep the jokes moving, keep the spotlight pointed somewhere that wasn’t on the mistake.

 

But this was different.

 

Every time he caught sight of Parker lately - slouching through the hallway, shadows under his eyes darker than usual - Flash felt this pinprick of guilt. It was small, irritating, like a splinter. But it was there. And he couldn’t shake the memory of Parker’s expression when he’d stormed out of that crappy corner store, bag over his shoulder, face tight and eyes burning.

 

Flash hadn’t even meant to get him fired, and he was trying to fix it. The problem was, he had no idea how.

 

He was trying, but Peter was making this so fucking difficult.

 

He’d tried ‘good deeds’ first. That seemed like a solid, movie-style solution. He held the door open for Parker once, which was stupid, because Parker didn’t even notice him and just muttered a distracted “thanks” without looking up. Flash had been forced to stand there like an idiot, holding a door for ten extra seconds while some random freshman walked through and said they appreciated it.

 

Next time he offered Parker a pencil in math, Parker just stared at it like Flash had handed him a dead bug. Then he took out his own pencil and ignored him.

 

Okay. Strike two. Or three. Or whatever they were up to at this point.

 

After that, Flash thought maybe he should go bigger. Like, show Parker he actually meant it. So he ‘accidentally’ bumped into a guy in the cafeteria who was about to jostle Parker’s tray, taking the hit himself. His mashed potatoes splattered down his hoodie, Parker looked startled, and Flash muttered, “You’re welcome,” trying to sound casual.

 

Parker just blinked, said “What?” like he had no idea what had even happened, and walked away.

 

Flash had to spend the rest of lunch trying to scrub gravy out of his shirt.

 

So yeah. Subtlety wasn’t working.

 

The longer it went on, the more annoyed Flash got. He was trying. Sure, maybe he wasn’t saying the words, but he was putting in effort, and Parker wasn’t even acknowledging it. Which was just so Parker. Ungrateful little weirdo.

 

And then everything went to shit in the locker room.

 

Flash wasn’t planning it. He wasn’t lying in wait or anything, even though he’d knew that Parker was late again - slipping in with his shirt half-buttoned, hair damp from rushing through the halls. The teacher wasn’t there yet, all of the guys had pretty much filtered out, and Flash figured, hey, perfect chance.

 

“Yo, Penis Parker,” Flash called. His usual opener, but softer. Friendly. He meant it that way.

 

Parker froze mid-step. Didn’t even look up, just muttered, “Not now, Flash.”

 

“C’mon, man,” Flash tried again, stepping a little closer and pressing his locker shut so the guy would just look at him. “I’m trying to-”

 

He didn’t even finish before Parker moved, and the next he knew, Peter had Flash shoved against the cold metal with an arm pressed across his chest.

 

Flash choked out a noise - half shock, half indignation - because Parker’s face was right there, twisted in this furious snarl that looked… wrong, like it was balanced on the edge of breaking into something else. His eyes were bright, glassy. His teeth bared like he was holding back words or maybe a sob.

 

“You don’t get it,” Parker spat, low, shaking. His voice cracked on the edges. “You don’t get it, Flash! You think this is funny? You think this is just - you screwing around? I needed that job! Do you even - do you even care what you did?”

 

Flash shoved him back, heart hammering. “Jesus - relax, man! I said I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know it’d get you fired! That’s my bad, but you don’t gotta shove me, asshole!”

 

Parker’s hands clenched at his sides, trembling. His face was red, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he’d been running. “You-” His voice cracked again, harsher. “You don’t even know. You don’t even try to know. Just stay the hell away from me, Flash.”

 

And then he was gone. He shoved past Flash, grabbed his bag, slammed the door so hard the lockers rattled. Flash stood there for a long moment, staring after him, the last lingering guy or two that were in the locker room gawking silently. His throat felt dry. His heart was still pounding, not from fear exactly, but from - something else.

 

He had been trying. He had. And Parker had just blown up at him like that?

 

Flash scowled, forcing his shoulders straight again, shoving down the weird knot in his chest. “Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for anyone listening to hear.

 

But later, when he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, all he could see was Parker’s face. That fury. That hurt behind it. And it made the knot twist tighter.

 

Flash hated it.

 

He hated Parker a little more, for making him feel it.

 

—

 

Peter was pretty sure he was going insane. Or - no, scratch that - he was pretty sure Flash Thompson was going insane, and Peter just happened to be the unwilling collateral damage. Which, fine. Story of his life. But this was… different.

 

Because Flash wasn’t bullying him. Not exactly. Not like usual. Peter almost wanted to say it was worse.

 

By the time lunch rolled around, Peter had spent the morning catching Flash in the corner of his vision more times than he could count. Not the usual, loud “Penis Parker!” declaration. Not a shove into the lockers. Not even one of those performative jabs that left Peter sore but otherwise fine. No - this was Flash walking behind him down the hall. Flash sitting one row over in chem even though Flash’s assigned seat was not there. Flash somehow managing to show up at Peter’s locker when Peter knew he didn’t have class anywhere nearby.

 

Like a shadow. A very loud, cologne-scented, weirdly persistent shadow.

 

Which was how Peter found himself slamming his tray down at the cafeteria table across from Ned and MJ and announcing, “Okay. I think I’m being hunted.”

 

Ned blinked at him. “By, like, actual people or villain people?”

 

“Neither?” Peter said, stabbing a fork into the very questionable green beans. “Flash.”

 

MJ raised her eyebrows just slightly. “He’s been weird,” she said. It wasn’t even a question, just a flat statement, like she’d been expecting this topic to come up eventually.

 

“Thank you!” Peter jabbed the air with his fork, then winced because - oops, almost flung a bean at Ned. “That’s what I’ve been saying! He’s not… doing his normal thing. He’s just… following me. Like, everywhere.”

 

Ned leaned in, squinting. “You mean like stalking?”

 

Peter grimaced. “Don’t say it like that.”

 

“What? That’s what it sounds like!”

 

“Not helping,” Peter muttered.

 

“Okay, but why though?” Ned asked. “Like, what’s his deal? Why’d he suddenly go from calling you names to… whatever this is?”

 

Peter dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know.” Don’t say he got you fired. Don’t admit you had a job. That’s gonna make Ned ask more questions than anything. “That’s the problem.”

 

“Maybe he’s trying to be friends,” MJ suggested dryly, picking at her apple with a plastic knife.

 

Peter gave her the flattest look he could manage. “Right. Because Flash Thompson has just been dying to be besties with me since middle school.”

 

“People can change,” MJ said with the exact tone of someone who didn’t believe that for a second.

 

Ned shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, man. Beat him up.”

 

Peter paused. “That’s your solution? Really?”

 

“You asked!” Ned said defensively. “I’m just saying. If you don’t like him following you around, you could just… you know. Web him to the ceiling or something.”

 

“Yeah, great idea,” Peter drawled. “Let’s escalate. That’ll totally make him forget about it.”

 

“Maybe he will just forget about it,” Ned offered. “Like - this’ll be one of those weird things people do for a week, then drop.”

 

Peter leaned back in his chair, chewing on something rubbery the cafeteria lady had served him. He wanted to believe that. But when Flash was fixated on tormenting him, he never forgot.

 

And sure enough, as if summoned by the sheer power of Peter’s despair, Flash walked by the table right then. Didn’t stop, didn’t say anything, didn’t make a scene - he just slowed his steps long enough to glance over at Peter. Like he was checking something. Like he was making sure Peter was still there.

 

And then he was gone.

 

Peter put his head down on the table.  

 

—

 

Peter had been ready to just… let everything into the background noise of the day.

 

In his experience, Flash’s attention span for tormenting him was short - he could always count on the guy getting distracted by something shinier within a few hours. So when he was halfway through dumping books into his locker after third period and heard, “Parker. We need to talk,” in a tone that wasn’t quite the usual smug sneer, his stomach sank.

 

Flash didn’t “need to talk” to him. Flash “needed” to shove him into lockers, to lob insults across classrooms, to make some snide comment in the cafeteria loud enough for everyone to hear. But now he was leaning against the lockers with his arms crossed, watching him with an intensity that made Peter’s skin crawl.

 

Peter straightened, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. “Uh. Pretty sure we don’t, actually.”

 

Flash ignored that, lowering his voice just enough that it was weirdly worse. The hall was kind of quiet now that most students had filtered into their classrooms. Except for him and Flash and the occasional passerby, apparently. “You’ve been… different.”

 

Peter blinked. “That’s the most ominous thing you’ve ever said to me, and I need you to know that’s saying a lot.”

 

“I’m serious.” Flash’s eyes scanned him, not in the usual mocking way, but more like he was cataloguing details - his face, his posture, his clothes. “You used to look like you crawled out of a dumpster most days, and now you’ve got, like… actual sneakers. A backpack without holes. You’re not using a phone with a cracked screen anymore. But you’re also walking around with…” He gestured vaguely at Peter’s shoulder. “…that.”

 

Peter felt heat creep up his neck. “I bumped into-”

 

“Don’t even.” Flash’s voice was low, sharp. “You’ve had bruises for weeks, Parker. Different ones. Fresh ones. And I’ve seen the scars. You’ve got more than you did before. You’re tired all the time. And you keep getting into these really expensive cars after school with tinted windows and some middle-aged guy driving you around.”

 

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed. Oh. Oh no.

 

He knew he was Spider-Man. Ned was right, and Flash knew that the internship wasn’t real and he was getting hurt on patrol, and he was late to everything because-

 

“Are you-” Flash paused, his voice dipping even lower. “…are you getting paid for that?”

 

It took Peter a solid three seconds to process the words. “What.”

 

“You know.” Flash made a vague gesture, his expression grim. “Paid.”

 

“What?” Peter’s voice pitched up. Is… is he asking what I think he’s asking? “What?! No - what?”

 

“I’m not judging-”

 

“Oh my god, Flash-”

 

“-but if you’re doing that because you need money, you can just-”

 

“Flash!” Peter hissed, his voice strangled with disbelief. 

 

His first instinct was to flat-out deny it, but the more Flash kept talking, the more something dangerous clicked into place. This… actually wasn’t the worst thing Flash could believe about him. If Flash thought he was some kind of - Peter’s brain cringed at the word - escort, then he definitely wouldn’t connect any of this to Spider-Man.

 

Peter swallowed hard, then lowered his voice. “Look, Flash. I'm not - but you can’t tell anyone. I’m serious. Please.”

 

Flash’s face softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “…Dude. You need money that badly?”

 

Peter winced, and Flash’s eyes narrowed. 

 

“I… didn’t mean to get you fired,” Flash gritted out, looking like the words pained him. “I’m - I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realise you were like… poor poor.”

 

Peter stared. “…What?”

 

“How much?”

 

Peter blinked, heat rushing to his ears. “What?!”

 

“How much do you charge?” Flash said it so casually, like they were talking about babysitting rates or mowing lawns.

 

Peter choked on absolutely nothing, looking away as heat shot into his face. “Flash, I’m not - I don’t want to-”

 

“Tell me,” Flash asked again, stepping closer. “I have money, Parker. I have an allowance. How much do you make whenever you get into one of those cars?”

 

“Flash!” Peter’s voice cracked into a desperate hiss.

 

“Just - do my homework or something instead,” Flash said lamely. “To - because I got you fired. I can pay you to do my homework and you don’t need to keep doing… whatever you’re doing.”

 

Was that… guilt?

 

Peter was frozen, somewhere between laughing, screaming, and wanting to melt into the floor. “That’s not - Flash, I’m not-”

 

“You wouldn’t have to be tired all the time. Or - y’know - get those.” Flash gestured again toward Peter’s arm where the bruises would have been if he hadn't had a healing factor, his jaw tightening. “You’re not a good liar, Parker. I know something’s going on. So just - name a price.”

 

Peter pressed a hand to his face, dragging it down slowly. “You have got to be kidding me.”

 

Flash’s voice dropped again, grimly determined. “I didn’t mean to make you do… whatever it is. I’ll cover it. Just - say the number.”

 

Peter’s mouth opened, and for the first time in the whole conversation, he couldn’t even muster a fake excuse. Because somehow, impossibly, this was both the most infuriating and the safest misunderstanding he’d ever been in. The way Flash said it - like this was a reasonable, logical plan - made Peter’s brain trip over itself.

 

His mouth opened, then closed. "You want me to - you think I... and you want to pay me to do your homework?"

 

Flash jerked back immediately, eyes widening like Peter had just accused him of something. “I don’t want to fuck you, Parker!” he snapped, voice rising with sharp defensive heat. “I’m not - I’m not gay, and who fucking knows where you’ve been-”

 

Okay. Ouch. That one landed square in the ribs, even though Peter told himself it shouldn’t. He bit down hard on the instinct to wince.

 

Flash plowed on, clearly more focused on making his point than on how many conversational landmines he was stomping on. “But that doesn’t mean I think you should be putting yourself in that position just because your family’s dirt poor. And... I feel bad for getting you fired.”

 

Peter’s brain stuttered to a halt. He… didn’t even have a comeback. Not a sarcastic one, not a panicked denial. Just static noise and the uncomfortable rush of heat up the back of his neck.

 

It took him a moment to shake it off enough to get a single word out. “No.”

 

Flash blinked. “…What?”

 

“I’m not taking your money just because you feel bad. I don't want your pity. I - no. I'm not taking it,” Peter said, his voice coming out flatter than he intended. He was aware - painfully aware - of the weight of the stares they were starting to collect from a couple of kids down the hall. Not close enough to hear, but close enough to see the body language. Flash leaning in, Peter’s shoulders drawn tight. He hated how easy it would be for this to turn into more rumors.

 

“I’m giving it to you,” Flash said incredulously, like that was going to change the entire premise. His hands lifted in an exaggerated gesture of disbelief. “You’re not - you can’t take anything from me. You’re skinnier than a twelve-year-old. For fuck’s sake, Parker, just take it.”

 

The jab landed somewhere between insult and genuine concern, and Peter hated that he could feel the sincerity under the usual bite of Flash’s delivery. It was almost worse than if Flash had just been mocking him.

 

“No,” Peter repeated, this time with more edge. He didn’t raise his voice, but he put enough firmness into it to make it sound final.

 

Flash stared at him. His brow furrowed, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to press harder or walk away. There was a strange tension in his posture - half a step forward, half a step back - like some part of him wanted to grab Peter by the arm and force him to accept whatever twisted version of help he thought he was offering.

 

Peter didn’t break eye contact. He kept his face still, steady, even though his pulse was thudding a little too fast and his brain was already spinning scenarios where Flash went around telling people he’d tried to “save” Peter from prostitution.

 

He sighed through his nose, rubbing his face. “It’s - I appreciate the thought, but this was-” He rubbed the back of his neck, choosing his words with care. “I’m not a prostitute, Flash. I don’t need your help.”

 

Flash’s expression sharpened like he’d just been told something personally insulting. “I’m not as dumb as you think.”

 

Peter gave him a look that very clearly said that’s debatable, but Flash steamrolled over it.

 

“I don’t care,” Flash said, and there was a strange, brittle urgency in his tone. “You think I haven’t been around prostitutes before? I’ve been to some of those sleazy business meetings my father goes to, and just because you call yourself an escort that doesn't change-”

 

“I don’t-”

 

“I don’t care. I get you just gotta buy food or whatever, but-” He stopped abruptly, glancing away like the words were too heavy to push through his teeth. “Just… fuck. Let me be nice for once.”

 

Peter’s expression flattened. “Why do you care?”

 

That got a reaction. Flash’s eyes snapped back to him, and for the first time all conversation-long, there was nothing performative about it.

 

“Because I see how they get treated!” he burst out, loud enough that Peter saw a couple of kids glance over before pretending they weren’t listening.

 

The words landed like a slap, echoing for a moment in the sudden, tight silence that followed.

 

Flash shifted his weight, jaw working. “And - and I’ve been an asshole,” he added, quieter now, almost to himself. “I got my own shit, but I didn’t realize-” He cut himself off, whatever crack had appeared in his expression sealing over in an instant. His voice went hard again. “Just do my homework and take the damn money. It's not like it's hard. It's free money, asshole. Take it.”

 

“No,” he said again, and this time he shifted to step past Flash, wanting nothing more than to end this conversation - but Flash moved with him, and before Peter could react, a hand shot out and shoved him back. His shoulders hit the cold metal of a locker with a hollow clang.

 

Peter’s instincts flared hot and sharp before he even processed it - pure fight-or-flight reflex, his body choosing for him. His fist came up fast, not a full swing, not the kind of hit that would actually hurt, but enough of a snap to the jaw to make Flash stagger back a step in surprise.

 

The look on Flash’s face was a mix of shock and something that looked almost - hurt?

 

Peter didn’t wait to find out. He bolted, slipping through the knot of students at the end of the hall, not looking back.

 

His pulse was still hammering in his ears when he rounded the corner, and he couldn’t decide if the flush in his face was from the burst of adrenaline or the conversation itself. Probably both.

 

—

 

“You’re not listening,” Ned accused, as they ducked through the halls. “And you’re gonna regret it, because this is important world-building stuff. What’s up with you? You’ve been-” he waved his hand vaguely “-broody all day. Even broodier than your usual brood.”

 

Peter grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “It’s just - ugh.” He hesitated, but keeping it to himself wasn’t helping, and if anyone could stand to hear his weird half-formed venting, it was Ned. “Flash.”

 

That got Ned’s attention fast. “Did he do something else?”

 

“Not normal. Not his usual-” Peter mimed punching air, “-‘hey Penis Parker’ stuff. More like…” He struggled for the word, shifting uncomfortably. “Like he’s… just… being nice. Sort of. Or trying to. I think. It’s - ugh, I don’t know.” He ran a hand down his face. “He keeps showing up everywhere, and it’s like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t even know what.”

 

Ned hummed thoughtfully. “Huh. Okay, but… why?”

 

Peter lifted both hands helplessly. “I don’t know! That’s the problem! He’s just - hovering. Being… weird.” He slumped back in his chair. “It’s driving me nuts.”

 

Ned leaned in, lowering his voice like this was about to be a top-secret mission. “Okay. Hear me out. You could beat him up. Just once. Get it out of your system.”

 

Peter groaned into his arms. “Wow, thank you. That’s really constructive.”

 

“I’m serious!” Ned whispered fiercely. “You’re Spider-Man. You could totally mop the floor with him. He wouldn’t even see it coming.”

 

“That’s not-” Peter raised his head, giving him a look of disbelief. “That’s not how it works. I’m not gonna… fight Flash. And besides, what am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I don’t know why you’ve been stalking me, but hold still while I throw you through a wall’? Great plan.”

 

MJ snorted her book without looking up from her phone. “Key his car,” she suggested flatly.

 

Peter choked. “What - no! I’m not gonna vandalize his - what is wrong with you guys?”

 

MJ finally glanced up, arching a brow. “What’s wrong with you? You look like somebody ran over your cat. If he’s bothering you, make him stop.”

 

“I don’t have a cat. And I don’t even know what he wants,” Peter muttered, stomach twisting with the sharp slap of humiliation that came with it. How much? He hadn’t told Ned or MJ that part. He couldn’t. He didn’t even want to think about it himself, let alone say it out loud.

 

Just remembering made his ears burn.

 

Ned studied him a little too closely. “So what do you wanna do, then? Just let him… trail after you forever like some kind of… sad little groupie?”

 

Peter winced. “Don’t call him that.”

 

“Why not?” Ned asked, incredulous. “That’s what it sounds like.”

 

“Because - because it’s Flash.” Peter hunched in on himself. “It’s complicated.”

 

MJ hummed under her breath, unimpressed. “Not really.”

 

Peter kicked at the shoes as they made their way outside, desperate to change the subject before his expression gave him away. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’ll figure it out.”

 

Outside, the late afternoon sun painted the pavement gold, students spilling onto the sidewalk in noisy clusters. “Okay,” Ned said, hitching his bag higher. “Final offer: I can totally lure him behind the gym and you can finish him off. Quick, painless, very Spider-Man-adjacent.”

 

MJ tucked her hands in her pockets. “Or we key his car. Still my vote.”

 

Peter groaned. “You guys are the worst.”

 

“You love us,” MJ said.

 

“Unfortunately.” He sighed, then spotted the familiar black Audi idling by the curb. “That’s my ride.”

 

Ned nudged him with an elbow. “Ooo, fancy. Tell your cool billionaire mentor we said hi.”

 

“Yeah,” Peter muttered, trying to hide how his chest loosened with relief. Home meant the empty apartment, because today was a Thursday and she always worked late Thursdays. He waved goodbye to them, slinging his backpack higher. “See you guys tomorrow.”

 

He jogged across the pavement and slipped into the backseat of the car. The door shut with a quiet thunk, and the noise dulled instantly. Peter let himself sag into the seat, shoulders unclenching for the first time all day. Safe. Finally safe.

 

Happy grunted from the driver’s seat without looking back. “Seatbelt.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter muttered, clicking it into place. He glanced automatically toward the school doors, some lingering instinct tugging at him - and froze.

 

Flash was standing there, just inside the entryway, watching him. Not smiling. Not smirking. Just watching, his face unreadable. Peter’s chest tightened, the relief he’d just tasted vanishing as quickly as it came.

 

The car pulled smoothly into traffic, and Flash disappeared from view, but Peter still felt those eyes on him.

 

Notes:

tw; more food insecurity/general hunger, talking about injuries but its not graphic. also flash thinks peter's a sex worker too but obv he's just. completely wrong there lmfao.

flash. flash. brother. bro. what are you doing. he's.... trying. he's just really, really stupid. i can fix him i swear

Chapter 3: basement

Summary:

Peter liked nights in the lab because Mr. Stark usually forgot how late it was. Or pretended to. It was hard to tell, sometimes. Right now Tony had three different holograms projected at once and was alternating between talking to one and cursing at another, which left Peter to lean across the workbench and watch.

He twirled a tiny screwdriver between his fingers and said, “So, I was thinking - I’ll head out on patrol, then swing home before May notices I didn’t already.”

Tony didn’t even look up. “Don’t be stupid.”

Notes:

oh my god besties ive been cooking. scheming. some incredibly evil suggestions have been made (i love u bestie u know who u are) and now everything is gonna be infinitely more miserable than intended. i am going to RUIN him >:)

Peter liked nights in the lab because Mr. Stark usually forgot how late it was. Or pretended to. It was hard to tell, sometimes. Right now Tony had three different holograms projected at once and was alternating between talking to one and cursing at another, which left Peter to lean across the workbench and watch.

 

He twirled a tiny screwdriver between his fingers and said, “So, I was thinking - I’ll head out on patrol, then swing home before May notices I didn’t already.”

 

Tony didn’t even look up. “Don’t be stupid.”

 

Peter grinned. “I’m never stupid.”

 

“Uh-huh. That’s why I have to pull you out of ceilings and sew you back together every other week.”

 

Peter made a face like that was unfair, even though, yeah, maybe he had given Tony some late-night practice with a medkit recently. “It was only once. Twice. And it was basically healed! You wouldn’t have even noticed if FRIDAY wasn’t a snitch.” Tony shot him a flat look and Peter winced. He bounced on his heels, restless, until he couldn’t take it anymore. “Okay, well, I’m - uh - gonna go. Promise I won’t blow anything up.”

 

Tony gave him a distracted two-finger wave without peeling his eyes from the hologram, and that was permission enough.

 

Peter slipped out the nearest window instead of using the door, because why use a door when you could vault into open air? The city lit up beneath him like it had been waiting. Wind in his mask, New York stretched wide and glowing, and Peter felt his lungs unclench in a way they never quite did inside the Tower.

 

“Hey, Karen,” he said, still catching his balance on the first swing. “What’s up? HUD looks - oh wow, yeah, this is new. Did you finally get that upgrade or something?”

 

“Mr. Stark ran an optimization protocol while you were in school,” Karen said in her smooth, chipper voice. “Your HUD efficiency has improved by thirty-two percent.”

 

“Nice! Now maybe I’ll actually see things before they explode in my face.”

 

“Would you like me to replay the three most recent near-explosion events?”

 

“Nope, no thank you, please don’t embarrass me in front of myself.” He perched on a rooftop ledge, surveying traffic below. “So, anything interesting tonight? Any muggings, carjackings, bank heists?”

 

Karen hesitated - just for a fraction of a second, which was weird, because Karen didn’t hesitate. “I followed one of the leads you asked me to track.”

 

Peter blinked. “Leads?” Then his brain caught up. Right. He’d told her weeks ago to keep an eye on some sketchy corners of the city where people had been going missing. Too many missing. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Did you - uh - find something?”

 

“Possibly. A name. An address. Cross-referenced with missing persons reports. The statistical probability of human trafficking activity is significant.”

 

Peter’s grin slid right off. 

 

He tugged at his mask, throat dry. “Oh.”

 

Karen projected the address in the corner of his HUD. A corner shop in Brooklyn; nothing flashy, nothing obvious, and Peter swung without thinking, heart speeding up. It was one thing to joke about not being stupid in front of Mr. Stark. It was another to actually… follow a trail like this.

 

He landed in the shadows across the street. The shop looked ordinary; bright awning, display window with dusty products, closed sign flipped backward. It could’ve been anywhere. “This looks… fine,” Peter whispered. “I’m gonna look like such an idiot if this is just, like, some guy’s soda warehouse.”

 

“You instructed me to follow possible trafficking-related anomalies,” Karen reminded.

 

“I know, I know.” His stomach fluttered uneasily. “Just… okay. Let’s be stealthy. Extra stealthy.” He stuck to the shadows, slipped around the back, and eased open a window that clearly hadn’t been locked in about a decade. Dust, stale air, silence. His sneakers crunched against the floor as he dropped inside. “Definitely gonna get yelled at if this is nothing,” Peter muttered, creeping between rows of old shelves. “Breaking and entering into the world’s most boring convenience store.”

 

Karen guided him with a pulsing blue marker in his HUD. Toward the back. A door. The kind of door people didn’t notice unless they wanted to.

 

Peter’s pulse spiked. He hesitated, fingers hovering over the handle.

 

“Basement access located,” Karen supplied.

 

“Yeah, no kidding.”

 

He cracked it open, wincing at the creak. Steps descended into a dark that smelled… wrong. He swallowed hard and started down. The further he went, the more the air changed. Not just dust, not just storage-room must. Something heavier. 

 

Metallic.

 

His stomach knotted. “Karen,” he whispered.

 

“Yes, Peter?”

 

But his tone had already dropped out of its usual light register. No jokes left. No nervous babble. Just the steady thrum of dread as his feet touched concrete and his mask lenses adjusted to the low light.

 

Because the basement wasn’t storage. Not for products.

 

Peter’s stomach sank all the way to the floor.

 

Oh.

 

—

 

Peter hated traffickers. He hated rapists. He hated sex crimes the most.

 

It wasn’t even a contest anymore. Bank robbers, muggers, arms dealers, even the occasional wannabe supervillain - sure, they were bad, they were dangerous, they needed to be stopped. But Peter could wrap his head around them. They made sense in that logical, cartoon-villain sort of way. Money. Power. Revenge. Something stupid, but comprehensible.

 

Traffickers, though. The kind of people who sold kids, who locked people away in basements, who treated human beings like inventory - that was a whole different category of rot. It made Peter feel like something was boiling inside him, like his bones wanted to crack open and spill acid, because if you wanted to be a criminal, there were so many other, shockingly less evil ways to do it.

 

He’d helped who he could. Called the cops when he couldn’t. Sometimes he’d hit a little harder than he meant to, and he’d walked away with more burner phones than he could count, snatched out of trembling hands before they got smashed to bits.  

 

(He tried not to think about the people in the basement.)

 

His leg hurt. Some guy had kicked him hard enough that his knee had wrenched sideways, a sick little pop that had sent white fire up his spine. He’d shoved it back into place with the kind of determination that felt more like spite than bravery, teeth gritted so hard they hurt. It was still throbbing, a pulse of dull heat every time he shifted weight wrong.

 

He’d limped through the rest of the fight anyway, and cleared the place as fast as he could. He’d tried to lower his voice and move slow when he spoke to them.

 

(He tried not to see himself in them. The voice and the hands and the staring at the ceiling and you’re so smart, let’s play a game, Einstein-)

 

By the time he’d staggered back out into the night, heart still hammering, the air had felt thick and sour, sticking in his throat.

 

(Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it-)

 

He told himself he was fine. Always fine. Even when he wasn’t.

 

At least he’d eaten before he left Mr. Stark’s lab - three cartons of takeout that had left the man giving him a look somewhere between horrified fascination and grudging respect. That would help with the healing. Probably. He told himself it would.

 

Whatever. It’d be fine. It always was.

 

—

 

Peter wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Flash cornered him between the library and the science wing - maybe some snide remark about his limp, maybe a shove, maybe a pointed reminder about whatever humiliation Flash thought was still owed from last week. But not this.

 

Not Flash leaning awkwardly against the wall, shifting his weight like he was the one trying to find the nerve to speak.

 

“I shouldn’t have… y’know, said all that stuff before,” Flash said finally, his tone gruff in a way that made it sound like the words were being dragged out of him.

 

Peter just stared. “You’re… apologising?”

 

Flash shot him a glare that said don’t make it weird, but didn’t deny it. “Yeah. Whatever. I was… out of line.”

 

That was almost more jarring than any insult could’ve been. Peter had braced himself for the usual snide remarks, for the smug grin, for the public performance. Instead, Flash was talking to him like a person. A person he wasn’t actively trying to humiliate.

 

Peter shifted uncomfortably, his backpack strap digging into his shoulder. “I mean… thanks?”

 

Flash studied him for a beat, his eyes flicking briefly down to the way Peter was favouring his right leg. “You’re sure you can’t let me pay for something?” Peter's head snapped up, and Flash hissed out, "Not that. Fucking - homework or something. Jesus fucking Christ, asshole, I'm not into you!"

 

There it was again - this bizarre, insistent offer that Peter still didn’t know what to do with.

 

“I’m not a prostitute,” Peter said tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. He’d lost count of how many times he’d said it by now, and each time it sounded flatter, more drained, like the energy had been scraped out of him.

 

Flash gave him the flattest stare imaginable. It wasn’t hostile - it was almost worse. It was the kind of look you gave someone who was lying badly.

 

Peter let out a pathetic noise somewhere between a groan and a whine, pressing both hands hard to his face as if maybe he could physically shove the whole conversation away. He took a long breath, dropped his hands, and looked at Flash wearily. “What’s it gonna take for you to believe me?”

 

Flash didn’t even pause. “Not limping, for one.”

 

“I dislocated my leg, that’s not my fault,” Peter snapped without thinking, the words slipping out before his brain could shove them back into the vault where all the other things-he-should-not-say were kept.

 

Flash straightened instantly, his expression going from flat suspicion to something tighter, more alarmed. “What?”

 

Peter froze. His brain tripped over itself trying to backpedal, but the damage was done. That single word - dislocated - hung in the air, and Flash gaped at him.

 

Fuuuuck.

 

The worst part was, Peter could already see the gears turning in Flash’s head, building a narrative that had nothing to do with rooftops or broken fall landings or busting sex-trafficking rings, and everything to do with the version of events Flash had been nursing since he saw Peter climb into that car.

 

Peter swallowed hard, shifting his weight off the bad leg and forcing his face into something neutral. “I mean - uh. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

 

“Not a big-” Flash’s voice spiked before he caught himself, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. When he looked back, his jaw was set. “Parker, that’s - how the hell did you even-”

 

Peter could feel his pulse in his ears. The urge to lie was strong, but every fake answer he came up with sounded like it would only dig the hole deeper. “I just - twisted it wrong. On the stairs,” he added lamely.

 

Flash’s eyes narrowed, his voice going low and tight. “You don’t dislocate your leg walking up stairs.”

 

Peter opened his mouth, closed it, then forced a crooked half-smile. “You’d be surprised what I can manage.”

 

Make fun of me. Take the bait. Move on.

 

Flash didn’t laugh.

 

The silence stretched, and Peter hated how much it felt like being under a microscope. He hated even more that, for all the wrong reasons, Flash’s concern didn’t seem fake. And if there was one thing harder than lying to someone, it was lying to someone who genuinely thought they were doing the right thing - even if for once that person was Flash. “It’s not - look, I know it sounds bad, but-”

 

“No, no- ” Flash cut him off, his voice climbing with disbelief. “You’re getting actually hurt?”

 

Peter could feel the ground under this conversation giving way, dropping them both into territory he really didn’t want to be in. He lifted his hands in a placating gesture, even as his words tangled together in a clumsy mess. “Not - not bad,” he fumbled, because apparently adding qualifiers made it better. It didn’t. "It's not - I misspoke."

 

Flash just stared at him, flat and silent, in a way that made Peter want to shrink two inches on the spot.

 

“I heal fast,” Peter offered weakly, like that was a totally normal thing for someone to claim. The moment the words left his mouth, he realised how incredibly ridiculous they sounded, and he immediately wished he could snatch them out of the air and eat them.

 

Silence settled over them again - heavy, loaded, and distinctly uncomfortable.

 

Peter cleared his throat, desperate to shift them anywhere else, even if it meant circling back to the absolute worst misunderstanding Flash had ever had about him. “I’m not a prostitute,” he said again, because he felt like that needed to be said.

 

“Sure,” Flash said tiredly, like he was humoring him. “Whatever you say, Parker.”

 

He didn’t linger. He just turned and walked off, the sound of his sneakers fading into the noise of the hallway.

 

Peter stood there for a second longer, still leaning his weight off the bad leg, feeling like he'd kicked a puppy or May had caught him stealing cookies like he was five again. He should’ve felt relieved that Flash had left - but instead there was this twisting, sour pit in his stomach that made him feel worse than before the conversation had even started.

 

Because somehow, Flash believing the wrong thing still felt easier than Flash knowing the truth, and that was a problem Peter didn’t know how to solve.

 

—

 

Peter woke up exhausted.

 

Not the kind of tired where you could rub your eyes, stretch, and trick your body into pretending it was fine. This was the kind of exhaustion that hung in his bones like wet cement. He rolled his head on the pillow, felt the tug of stiff muscles across his shoulders, the low drag of soreness that spider-healing hadn’t quite gotten around to fixing. The ceiling above him was blurred with the haze of morning light leaking through his blinds, a pale stripe cutting diagonally across the room.

 

When he finally dragged himself out of bed and into the living room, there was a soft scrape of movement by the dining table, and Peter blinked.

 

May was there.

 

She was sitting in the chair, shoulders hunched forward, a piece of paper bent tight in her hands. She was so intent on it she hadn’t even noticed him. The paper looked like it was fighting to spring back flat, but her knuckles kept it pressed in a sharp fold. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot at the base of her neck, wisps escaping to frame her face, and she wore the same cardigan she always grabbed when she was heading out early.

 

Peter’s chest squeezed.

 

Peter stayed still for a second, his body heavy and uncooperative. He watched her trace a line down the page with her thumb, pause, sigh. The sound was soft but heavy enough to sink into his gut.

 

When he shifted, the floorboards creaked. May startled.

 

Her head snapped up, eyes wide for just a second before she schooled her face back into something lighter. She slid the paper - bill, probably - under a folder on the table like it hadn’t been there at all. By the time her gaze landed on him, she was already smiling. The kind of smile that tried too hard, tugging a little too tight at the corners.

 

“Morning, baby,” she said. Her voice was warm, practiced. “You’re up early.”

 

Peter rubbed at his eyes, murmuring around a yawn. “Morning.” His voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

 

She stood, moving to wrap him in a hug. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and all he could do was let out a small, surprised breath. Her lips were soft, familiar. He wanted to sink into it, to let the warmth curl around him that lessened some of the heaviness dragging at him.

 

“I made you some breakfast,” she said, smoothing a wrinkle in his shirt that didn’t need smoothing. “Thought you might need it.”

 

Peter swallowed, throat tight. He forced himself to stand a little straighter, ignoring the stiff pull in his leg. “You didn’t have to, y’know. Make breakfast. You’ve got work soon.”

 

It wasn’t until she reached over to tuck a piece of hair off his forehead that he noticed the dark smudges under her eyes. The skin there was bruised with exhaustion, and he’d seen it before, sure, but sometimes he forgot how young she wasn’t. He’d catch her yawning after a double shift or see her shuffle through the mail like the envelopes themselves were too heavy, and it would hit him again - she was tired. She’d been tired for a long time.

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed. But noticing didn’t make it feel any less like guilt pressing hot and insistent in his chest.

 

May pulled back just enough to look at him properly. “I don’t mind. Besides, I’ve been picking up a lot of extra shifts lately. The least I can do is make you a couple of eggs before I run out the door.”

 

There it was again - the apology tucked into her voice, the way she spoke like she was making excuses for existing.

 

Peter sat up a little straighter, ignoring the stiff pull in his leg. “It’s fine,” he said quickly, forcing a lightness into his tone.  “Seriously. I’m with Mr. Stark almost half the week, anyway. And when I’m not, I’m just buried in homework, so…”

 

She reached for his hand before he could fidget it away. Her fingers curled around his, warm and steady. “Still,” she said, her voice a little thinner now. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much as I’d like. Hopefully I can get some time off soon, and maybe we can go get some Thai food like we used to. Just you and me.”

 

Peter’s heart clenched.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her. He did. He believed that she wanted it - that she wanted the time, wanted the easy joy of takeout in paper cartons, sitting on the couch together with a dumb movie in the background. She meant it - meant it in that way where she wanted it without the weight of counting every bill in her wallet first.

 

But wanting it and being able to afford it were two different things.

 

He knew it wouldn’t happen. Not soon, anyway. Not with the stack of envelopes he’d seen her hiding under the pile of mail, not with the hours she was bleeding herself dry to cover, not when takeout was a luxury they hadn’t had in months. Thai food wasn’t just dinner. It was rent money. It was groceries. It was an electricity bill waiting to come due. He knew how expensive food was. He knew the weight of the bills stacked on the counter, the way she folded them under magazines like he wouldn’t notice. He knew how many hours she was working just to keep them housed. And he knew - down to the cent - that if he still had his “extra income,” maybe they could’ve scraped together enough for it.

 

Back when he could slip twenties into her coat pocket, crumpled bills she’d find later like little miracles. But he didn’t. Not anymore. Now every cent he didn’t have was a cent that came directly out of her.

 

But that was gone now. And with it, the flimsy safety net he’d pretended was enough.

 

“Yeah,” Peter said finally, his mouth dry and cotton-mouthed, words sticking. “That’d be nice.”

 

And then May beamed at him. Not a small smile, not a careful one - an honest, open beam that lit her face in a way that somehow drained the unease from his chest. For a moment, he almost believed her.

 

The kitchen smelled like butter and slightly overcooked toast, and for a second Peter let himself pretend it was Saturday morning when he was ten years old and May would let him sit on the counter while she fried eggs in too much oil. But then the real scene snapped back into focus - May’s work bag already slung over her shoulder, her shoes half on, her hair scraped back into a bun that made the circles under her eyes stand out more than ever.

 

“Eat before it gets cold,” she said, like it wasn’t already cooling on the plate, like her voice wasn’t paper-thin with exhaustion. She leaned over to kiss his hair again - quick, warm, gone too fast - and Peter tilted his head toward it without thinking, chasing it the way you chase sunlight when it slips through the blinds. “Don’t wait up tonight,” she added, adjusting her bag strap, “I might be late.”

 

He wanted to say when aren’t you lately, but he bit it down, shoved it into the same part of his chest where all the other unsaid things went. Instead, he smiled, soft, careful. “Okay.”

 

She gave him that tired beam again, the one that lit her whole face even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and then the door clicked behind her.

 

Silence pooled in the apartment.

 

Peter sat at the table staring at the plate in front of him: eggs scrambled to uneven chunks, a piece of toast already sagging from the steam, butter melting into thin streaks. It looked good. It smelled good. His stomach even hurt with hunger, but the longer he sat, the heavier his throat felt.

 

He picked up the fork. Put it down again.

 

The guilt pressed in like a second skin. He could picture May’s wallet with the frayed edges and the stack of bills that never seemed to shrink, and all he could think about was the wad of twenties that weren't there anymore. It had been easy, in its own messed-up way - slipping bills into her coat pocket, letting her think maybe she’d forgotten or maybe she’d over-withdrawn by accident. She never asked questions, and he never explained. It had helped. It had mattered. And now it was gone, and she was working herself to the bone while he sat here staring at eggs he couldn’t force himself to eat.

 

He pressed his palms against his face, elbows on the table, and breathed out through his nose. The eggs were still steaming faintly, but the toast was already losing its warmth.

 

He could still feel the ghost of her hand squeezing his across the blanket, her promise about Thai food like a stone lodged in his chest. That’d be nice, he’d said, like it was even possible. Like it wasn’t just another small kindness she’d given him to hold onto.

 

Peter swallowed hard, picked up the fork again, and forced a bite down. It tasted like cardboard.

 

The clock on the wall ticked loud in the empty kitchen, and Peter sat there chewing slowly, pretending he didn’t feel like the biggest burden in the world.

 

—

 

He had been doing his best not to limp too obviously for the rest of the day. It had been over a day, and it was pretty much better - but he still had to think about walking properly despite the fact that every part of him subconsciously wanted to shift his weight to his uninjured leg. Whatever. 

 

It wasn’t easy, though, and whenever he forgot every step sent a muted throb up the side of his leg - the kind of ache that wasn’t sharp enough to justify slowing down but still made him grit his teeth every few seconds. The late-afternoon sun was in his eyes, washing the parking lot in glare. Somewhere past the gates, the sleek black car with tinted windows waited exactly where it always did, a quiet, polished beacon that practically screamed suspicious rich person transport to anyone who cared enough to notice.

 

He’d almost made it to the curb when fingers closed tight around his arm.

 

Peter startled, his weight shifting instinctively away from the pressure when he’d realised who had just grabbed him. “Flash-”

 

Flash wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was locked on the car, head tilted just enough to catch the reflection in the darkened glass. His jaw was set hard, his other hand curled loosely at his side. Then, without warning, he leaned slightly, directing his voice toward the rolled-down back window. “Who the hell are you?”

 

Happy, who’d clearly been hoping for a quick pickup without the need for conversation, gave him a long, slow look. His expression settled into the familiar, vaguely irritated scowl Peter knew so well. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

 

Flash’s frown deepened.

 

“Get in, kid,” Happy added, eyes flicking to Peter. “I don’t want to wait around all day.”

 

Before Peter could say anything - before he could even think of the right tone to defuse this - Happy rolled the window up with deliberate finality. The glossy black glass slid into place, shutting out both the sunlight and any possibility of smoothing this over. Peter let out a tight sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Flash-”

 

But Flash’s eyes were still on the car, dark with something sharp and simmering. “Don’t die,” he said suddenly, cutting over whatever excuse Peter had been about to fumble through. Then, before Peter could respond, Flash shoved a crumpled piece of paper into his hand. “Not that I care or anything. But text me when you’re home so I know you’re safe.”

 

It was so abrupt - so utterly not how their conversations usually went - that Peter just blinked at him, caught between confusion and the strange little twist in his chest at the words.

 

Flash didn’t give him time to react. He stepped back, hands shoved into his pockets, already turning toward the school building again like he hadn’t just dropped that on him. Peter glanced after him once, then shook himself and slid the rest of the way to the car. The cool air from the AC hit him as soon as he opened the door, and he dropped into the seat with a faint, relieved exhale. His backpack landed with a soft thump beside him.

 

Only then, with the engine humming and the car pulling smoothly away from the curb, did he remember the paper still balled up in his palm.

 

He smoothed it open against his knee, the rough fibres of notebook paper catching on his fingertips. The writing was jagged, pressed too hard into the page - Flash’s handwriting, instantly recognisable from the years of snide notes passed in class and insults carved into the margins of group worksheets.

 

It was just a phone number. No name, no message, just the number scrawled large and uneven.

 

Peter stared at it for a moment longer, the paper warm from his hand, before folding it carefully and tucking it into the smallest pocket of his bag.

 

He didn’t know if he was going to use it. But he didn’t throw it away, either.

 

—

 

Peter didn’t notice the paper until it fluttered against his bare foot.

 

He’d been halfway through tugging his shirt over his head, ribs pulling with the stretch, when the faint slip of motion caught his eye. Something small and square fell from the pocket of his jeans, drifted lazily to the floor like it had all the time in the world. Peter froze mid-motion, shirt bunched in his hands, watching it land just at the edge of the bathroom tiles.

 

It was only when the quiet thud registered that he let the shirt drop onto the counter and crouched, reaching for it. The sight made something in his stomach twist, sharp and weird, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He thumbed the crease in the paper, flattening it against his palm, and for a second his mind went right back to the look on Flash’s face this afternoon - or yesterday, now, if he looked at a clock - serious, almost... concerned. Not the smug smirk Peter was used to, not the arrogant jabs in the hallway.

 

It was something else entirely, and he didn't know what to do with that.

 

Peter let out a long breath and straightened, leaning back against the bathroom counter. His reflection in the mirror looked like shit. He was pale under the yellow light, hair flattened from where his mask had sat earlier, and there was a faint, tired slump to his shoulders. His gaze drifted lower, to where the healed bullet wound sat just under his collarbone.

 

It wasn’t much anymore - just a faint, puckered mark - but his hand still came up to press against it like it might ache again if he didn’t check. The skin was smooth under his fingers, though the memory of pain was stubborn and vivid. He tilted toward the mirror, rolling his shoulder forward until the scar caught the light. It was barely there, a thin pink shadow of what it had been, but his chest still felt tight looking at it.

 

His eyes flicked back to the scrap of paper in his other hand.

 

He should throw it away. Crumple it and toss it. He didn’t even know why Flash had given it to him - well, he did know, technically, but the whole situation had been insane. Flash feeling... what? Guilty? Feeling guilty enough that he'd decided Peter was in some kind of vague, dangerous trouble and apparently thinking the best solution was to give him a number and tell him to call if things “got bad.” Whatever “bad” meant.

 

The idea of actually using it was ridiculous.

 

And yet- 

 

Peter set the note down on the counter beside his shirt and headed for the shower before he could think too hard about it. The hot water steamed up the mirror in seconds, stinging against the lingering ache in his shoulder. He stood there for longer than he meant to, letting the spray run over his face, trying to think about anything that wasn’t Flash Thompson.

 

It didn’t work.

 

By the time he got out, towel slung low on his hips and hair dripping down his neck, his mind was already circling back to that number. He dressed slowly, pulling on a pair of old sweatpants and a loose hoodie, and wandered back to the bathroom. The paper was still sitting there, looking smaller than he remembered.

 

He stared at it for a long moment, chewing the inside of his cheek.

 

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he picked it up, smoothed it against his knee, and pulled his phone from his pocket.

 

Peter: Hey.

 

He typed it out and stared at the word. Too abrupt. Too... needy? He deleted it, then retyped the same thing anyway.

 

Peter: hey

 

Better. Less capital letters, less effort - casual. He added another line before he could stop himself.

 

Peter: i got home ok

 

His thumb hovered over the send button for a beat too long, but then it was gone, flying through the air toward Flash’s phone. He chewed his lip, thinking that should probably be enough, then remembered Flash might not even have his number saved.

 

Peter: This is peter by the way

 

There. Context.

 

Peter tossed his phone on the bed and went to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. He could almost convince himself he wasn’t waiting for a response if he didn’t keep the phone in arm’s reach. The glass was cold in his hand, condensation slick against his fingers, and he drank in long swallows just to have something to do.

 

When he came back, the screen was dark.

 

No reply.

 

He sat on the edge of the bed, rolling his water glass between his palms, telling himself that was fine. It didn’t matter if Flash answered or not - he’d only texted so the guy wouldn’t think he’d been mugged or murdered in the couple - several - hours since they’d last seen each other. He dropped back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

 

Time dragged.

 

The room was quiet except for the hum of traffic outside, the occasional whoosh of a passing car. Peter tried to focus on other things - homework, the fact that he still hadn’t fixed the tear in his hoodie - but his brain kept drifting back to the stupid piece of paper. To Flash, shoving it into his hand like Peter was seconds away from calling him in the dead of night for help.

 

He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Imagine going to Flash for help.

 

By the time his phone buzzed, he’d convinced himself Flash wasn’t going to reply at all.

 

He sat up so fast his water sloshed over the rim of the glass, setting it hastily on the nightstand before grabbing the phone. The text was short.

 

Flash: Good. dont die please.

 

Peter stared at it, lips parting. It was simple - borderline bossy - but the way it was worded made something warm and uncomfortable flare low in his chest. He didn’t know why.

 

His fingers moved almost without thinking.

 

Peter: Wasnt planning on it

 

The three dots didn’t appear. He set the phone down again, leaning back against the headboard, and told himself it didn’t matter whether or not Flash replied a second time. He wasn’t going to sit there and wait for a reply like some kind of - like someone who cared.

 

Except he did.

 

And that was the problem.

 

—

 

Peter had never actually thought about what his face looked like when Flash was around. He knew he grimaced, sure - something automatic and sour that curled in before he could stop it. But lately, every time Flash so much as opened his mouth, Peter felt it was something worse, something more transparent. Something that said please don’t see me, please don’t look too close.

 

It was harder to hide when he was tired. And after getting home so late last night, Peter was bone-deep, marrow-cracked tired. His knee was still aching, wrapped tight beneath his jeans so it wouldn’t wobble and give him away. He’d pulled another hoodie on over the one he’d actually wanted to wear just to hide the bruises scrawled across his arms.  There was still grime under his nails, scrubbed until his skin was raw but not enough to get it all gone.

 

And Flash - of course - was waiting in the hall.

 

“Parker.” Flash’s voice was low, way too careful. Not his usual crowing, not loud enough for the people around to catch. He was leaning against the lockers, watching with an intensity that made Peter’s stomach flip. Peter didn’t stop walking. He was two steps past before Flash even pushed off the metal. “Hey - wait-” Flash caught his sleeve.

 

Peter pulled back, just a little, just enough. He pulled free fast. “Don’t.”

 

“I just-” Flash sounded thrown. His hand hung in the air for a second before he shoved it into his pocket. “I just wanted to check if you’re… y’know. Okay.”

 

Peter gave him a strained smile. “Never better.”

 

Flash frowned at him like he didn’t believe a word of it. “Parker, last night-”

 

“Don’t.” Peter almost begged, because if Flash started talking in the middle of the hallway Peter was going to lose it. He shifted his backpack up his shoulder, hunched smaller, kept walking.

 

Flash didn’t follow.

 

Peter made it all the way to homeroom before his pulse stopped pounding in his ears.

 

—

 

By lunchtime, he was still avoiding him. He didn't even really know why - but the whole thing was weird, and the way Flash looked at him made something twist in his gut uncomfortably.

 

Anyway. Peter was avoiding him.

 

It wasn’t even hard. Midtown was a maze of corridors and bodies, noise and schedules that never quite lined up. As long as Peter kept moving - ducking down a hall, pausing at a vending machine, pretending he had to re-tie his shoe at exactly the right moment - Flash stayed two steps behind.

 

Ned noticed first.

 

They’d claimed their usual table near the corner, trays wedged between half-open notebooks and loose pencils. Peter had been stabbing at his sandwich without much appetite, leg jittering restlessly under the table, when Ned gave him a look. “What?” Peter tried. He swallowed too fast, nearly choked on bread. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“You’ve been weird all day.”

 

Peter scowled at his plate. “You've been weird all day.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Ned leaned closer. “What did Flash do?”

 

That was the thing about Ned - he cut straight through Peter like glass with no subtlety or build up; like there weren’t even layers to peel back. Just - core, right there on the table, exposed. Peter pushed his sandwich away. “Nothing.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Seriously.”

 

Across from them, MJ didn’t even look up from her book. “Flash definitely did something.”

 

Peter groaned. “Why does everyone think I can’t just… be in a bad mood sometimes?”

 

“Because you’re you,” Ned said. “And you never let anything slide. So if you’re in a bad mood, something happened. So what did he do? Make another dumb video? Try to get you to admit you’re Spider-Man again?”

 

Peter’s ears burned. “No.”

 

MJ glanced up finally. “Then what?”

 

Peter fiddled with his straw. The plastic bent in on itself, soft little creaks under his thumb. He wanted to tell them. He didn’t want to tell them. His throat squeezed tight around both. “He just-” His voice caught. He started again, quieter. “He was being… weird.”

 

“Weird how?” Ned pressed.

 

Peter shrugged. “Just... Weird.”

 

MJ shut her book with a soft thud. “You’re humiliated.”

 

Peter blinked at her.

 

“Look at you.” She gestured lazily with one hand, eyes sharp. “Your shoulders are up to your ears, you’re shredding your straw like it insulted your aunt, and you haven’t even eaten half your sandwich. He said something, and it got under your skin.”

 

Peter wanted to sink through the floor.

 

Ned frowned, more cautious now. “Do you want to, like… do something about it? I mean - I could say something to him. Or you could.”

 

Peter shook his head quickly. “No. It’s not Flash. Or it’s not just Flash. It’s just - it was… something on patrol.”

 

“...oh.”

 

It felt kind of shitty to use that as an excuse - it wasn’t untrue, because that had certainly and completely ruined his mood for the foreseeable future until he managed to shut down whatever crime ring was operating like that. But Flash was just… the little shitty cherry on top.

 

Ned, thankfully, dropped it.

MJ just hummed. “If you don’t pop his tires, I will.”

—

 

Peter was already halfway through pretending he didn’t see Flash when he heard the footsteps fall in beside him - but he could feel that tense awareness creeping up his spine anyway. Flash had a certain way of moving that Peter’s brain clocked even before his eyes did. All purposeful stride and looming presence, like he was on a mission. And sure enough, before Peter could slide away into the crowd of kids spilling toward the next class period, Flash was right there, keeping pace with him.

 

“Hey,” Flash said, low enough that it didn’t sound like his usual hallway banter. “You good? You, like... injured or anything after-”

 

Peter’s eyes flicked sideways, and he cut him off before the sentence finished. “I’m fine.” He injected it with as much finality as he could muster, hoping it would stick.

 

It didn’t.

 

Flash gave him this searching look, like he was trying to read him for hidden injuries. Peter hated that look. It was invasive in a way that made him want to curl his shoulders forward and fold in on himself. He kept walking. “You don’t look fine,” Flash tried again, almost tentative, which was bizarre coming from him. “Seriously, did you-”

 

“I said I’m fine,” Peter repeated, sharper this time. He didn’t stop to soften it. He didn’t even slow down, weaving through the tide of bodies until he hit his locker. Maybe if he kept his back to him and fiddled with his combination, Flash would give up.

 

Except, apparently, Flash wasn’t built for giving up.

 

Peter had just swapped his books when a sudden thunk landed right next to his head. He jerked reflexively, his gaze snapping to see Flash’s palm braced against the metal door of the locker beside his own. Flash was close. Too close. The kind of close where Peter could feel his body heat through the morning chill. It was a classic Flash move - boxing someone in - but there was something different about it now. Not mean, exactly. Not the way he used to do it to flex in front of his friends.

 

Peter leaned back a fraction, not enough to hit the opposite locker, but enough to make the space clear. His hand hovered near the strap of his bag like he could wedge it between them if he needed to.  

 

“Don’t touch me.” The words came out flat. No theatrics, no bite. Just the warning.

 

For a second, Flash faltered. Then his mouth twisted, scrambling for cover, “Sorry,” he muttered. “Forgot I have to pay for that.”

 

Peter went rigid. His jaw tightened. He didn’t even realize his fingers had curled white-knuckled around his backpack strap until the plastic dug into his palm. Flash must’ve seen it instantly, because the smirk faltered. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like maybe he could shove the words back down his own throat if he was quick enough.

 

“Okay - wait - no, that came out wrong,” he said, stepping back just enough to give Peter some space. His hands lifted, palms out like Peter was a skittish animal that might bolt. “That’s not what I-”

 

“Don’t.” Peter’s voice cut through sharper than he meant. He hated how raw it sounded, like Flash had ripped something out of him without permission.

 

“I wasn’t - I’m not trying to…” Flash’s voice trailed off, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “I’m just... trying to help.”

 

Peter barked out a short laugh. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t anything. It just broke out of him sharp and mean, and he hated how it sounded in his own ears. “Why?” he shot back before he could stop himself. “Why do you care?”

 

Flash blinked. His posture shifted, like Peter had knocked the air out of him. “Look. Parker. I don’t - I never liked you.” The honesty in his tone was jarring. “But there’s a difference between sticking gum in your locker and tripping you over and…” He hesitated, jaw working. Then, flatly: “And watching you actively get pimped out for shady rich guys.”

 

The air thinned. Peter’s stomach plummeted so hard he thought his knees might give.

 

“I’m not-!”

 

“Dude,” Flash said flatly. No smirk. No smug. Just... flat. Peter’s face burned. And then, softer - like he wasn’t sure if it would make things worse: “Come on. You think I don’t notice stuff? I might be an asshole, but I’m not blind.” Peter’s face burned, and his throat tightened until he couldn’t tell if he wanted to shout or crawl into a locker and never come out.

 

There was this awful, stretching silence. Students walked by. Lockers clanged. The distant chatter of someone laughing too loud bounced off tile. Normal sounds, background noise. But all of it felt paper-thin, flimsy compared to the weight pressing down on Peter’s chest.

 

He didn’t breathe until Flash shifted his weight, looking down the hallway like he wanted to be anywhere else. Then back at Peter, and something unfamiliar flickered across his face. Concern? Guilt? Both looked weird on him.

 

Peter swallowed. The lump in his throat didn’t move. His hands curled tighter around the strap of his backpack.

 

Flash’s expression softened. It wasn’t pity exactly, but it was close enough that Peter’s face flushed hot, ears burning. He hated that. Hated that stupid soft look, hated the implication buried under it, hated that Flash thought he could just read him like that.

 

“It’s - look,” Flash said, voice dropping like he was shifting gears. “I get this school is expensive. I heard about your uncle when it happened, and-” Peter winces again. He didn’t want to talk about that. He didn’t even want Flash to know about that. The wince only made Flash hesitate for a fraction of a second before pushing on, “…and I get you’re like, poor. But why not just… sell drugs or something?”

 

For a second Peter thought maybe he’d misheard him. But no - Flash was just standing there, saying it like he’d just suggested switching electives.

 

“I’m not going to-!” Peter blurted.

 

And then Flash’s eyes went a little wide too, like oh, maybe that came out worse than it sounded in his head. “I - not that you should,” he rushed to add, hands half-lifting in some vague ‘calm down’ gesture. “But like - it’s probably safer? I…”

 

Flash trailed off, glancing sideways like he was trying to find the right words, and Peter was left standing there with his heart pounding and his brain caught somewhere between this is infuriating and what the hell does he even think I’m doing?

 

Peter wished, more than anything in that moment, that he could just vanish into thin air.

 

Peter’s hands were halfway through swapping out textbooks in his locker, but the sound of that hesitant I… made his shoulders pull in, slow and tense. He didn’t turn to look at him. “I can handle myself, Flash.”

 

Flash kind of deflated beside him, that restless energy of his folding down into something smaller. 

 

“Yeah. Whatever. You just look like you’re half-starved.” The remark hit something low and hot in Peter’s gut, and for a second the urge to snap back - no, to bite - welled up sharp enough to feel like it might spill out without him meaning it to. And maybe it would have, except Flash tacked on, “No offense.”

 

Peter shoved his history book in harder than necessary. “It’s none of your business.”

 

“It kind of is,” Flash said, and Peter could hear the shift in tone before he even looked. “I elbowed you and you almost bled out in the middle of the hallway.”

 

Peter turned, frowning. “No, I didn’t-”

 

Flash cut him off with a raised hand. “Doesn’t matter. Look, I’m just… I’m sorry, okay? I got you fired and I know that probably didn't help with your whole... situation. I know I’m an asshole sometimes-”

 

“Sometimes,” Peter echoed under his breath, but Flash kept going.

 

“-but that doesn’t mean I actively want you to get seriously hurt. And I know that… stuff like this people killed. And shady rich people are terrible people, dude. I just - I’ve seen some of the shit they do to the women they pay to be there, and I just…”

 

The sentence unraveled into air. Flash’s mouth closed; his jaw flexed. He swallowed like something in the back of his throat was made of stone. Peter’s own gaze skittered away, tracing a crack in the paint on the locker across from his. He thought about the basement and squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“I just don’t want that to happen to you,” Flash said finally, softer. “I don’t know - I know you probably don’t believe me, or you don’t know why I’m -  I don’t even know why I’m saying this, to be honest, but… just because we’re not, like, friends or anything doesn’t mean I want you to end up in a ditch. Or overdosed on whatever they’re gonna give you.”

 

Peter shut his locker door, the clang sharper than he meant it to be. His sigh was thin, pressed through his teeth. “I... I know you don’t believe me when I say I’m not a prostitute,” he said flatly, “but at least believe me when I say I’m not in danger.”

 

“You’re lying,” Flash said without hesitation.

 

Peter’s head snapped toward him. “How do you know?” The words came out sharp, defensive.

 

Flash’s eyes didn’t even flicker. “Your fingers twitch,” he said. “And you are in danger. You’re always hurt. I just-”

 

“Flash-”

 

“Just -  are you - can I pay you to do my homework instead?”

 

Peter stared at him. His mouth opened, then closed, the bottom of his stomach dragging. “I’m not taking your money,” he said, and this time it came out miserable, because he could already feel where this was going.

 

“Dude. I know you need it.”

 

Peter wanted to bristle, but for a moment all he could think about was May’s face that morning, the tired smile that she’d pasted on, the way she’d pressed the back of her hand to her temple when she thought he wasn’t looking. He could still see the plastic container of eggs cooling on the counter, waiting for him to eat, while she rushed out to another long shift. He hadn’t even touched them until she was gone, because if he’d eaten while she was watching, she might have asked him how they were, might have wanted him to lie and say they tasted good, when really they tasted like every ounce of exhaustion she’d poured into making them.

 

And he felt guilty. He felt guilty for noticing how worn she was, guilty for letting her leave the apartment with dark crescents under her eyes, guilty for not fixing it somehow. He wasn’t working anymore, wasn’t slipping cash into her pockets the way he used to. Every little bit had helped before. Now it was gone, and everything was heavier.

 

Peter swallowed, his throat dry. Maybe that was why his mouth opened without his brain’s permission.

 

“…Okay,” he muttered.

 

Flash blinked at him, like he hadn’t actually expected to win the argument. “Okay…?”

 

Peter shifted his weight. He couldn’t look Flash in the eye. “I’ll take your money,” he said, the words sour on his tongue. He could already feel how wrong it sounded, but he pressed through it anyway, stubborn. “But not to do your homework. I’ll - how about I tutor you?”

 

“I don’t need help.”

 

Peter finally looked at him then, flat and tired, and squared his shoulders the way he did before walking into a fight he knew would hurt. “I’m not doing your homework.”

 

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the shuffle of other students passing through the hall. Then Flash hissed, frustrated. “Fine. Whatever. Sure. Couldn’t hurt.”

 

Peter bit his lip, staring at the tiled floor between them. “What homework do you need help with?”

 

“All of it,” Flash muttered without hesitation, then, almost sheepish, “But physics the most.”

 

Something in Peter loosened just slightly. Physics wasn’t easy for everyone, but it was easy for him. It was something he could actually do, and he nodded once. “Okay. When?”

 

Flash’s brow creased. “Huh?”

 

“When do you want to do it?”

 

“Do what?”

 

Peter blinked. “…Your homework, dumbass.”

 

“Oh.” Flash rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, I - when are you… working?”

 

The question hit Peter like a bucket of cold water, leaving him wrung out. He let out an exhausted noise, more sigh than anything else. “I have the internship on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Other than that I’m free.”

 

“Oh. Okay. So - how about today?”

 

Peter felt himself hesitate for half a second, but there wasn’t a real reason to say no. He thought about May’s thin smile, the guilt he’d been choking down all morning. He nodded. “Yeah. I’m free today. I can help with it.”

 

Flash studied him for a beat longer, then asked, softer this time, “You sure it’s okay? You’re not gonna get, like… beat for taking a day off?”

 

Peter frowned at him, jaw tightening. “You want help or not?”

 

“Yes. Sorry. Look, I - whatever. Do you want me to give you a lift after school? To my place?”

 

Peter exhaled, rubbing at the back of his own neck. “…Sure.”

 

It was hard to reconcile Flash offering him a ride home with the same guy who used to shove him into lockers for fun. Harder still to reconcile the careful note of concern in Flash’s voice with the years of jeers and cruel nicknames, but Peter figured maybe he didn’t need to reconcile it. Maybe he could just… take the help, for once, without poking at the why until it fell apart.

 

Not that he trusted it entirely - he wasn’t stupid - but still. Physics was physics, and homework was homework, money was money, and for one afternoon, maybe that could be enough.

 

Notes:

tws for more mentioned prosititution/sex work, mentioned SA (both to peter and to other background characters, though its not in depth)

 

wow. sure hope nothing goes wrong

Chapter 4: study

Summary:

Peter sat slumped at the cafeteria table, poking at his tray. The carrots were pale, the chicken patty looked like it had been scraped off the floor, and there was a smear of something on his milk carton that might've been chocolate or might've been blood. He didn’t care. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t even present, not really.

He was marinating. That was the word. Marinating in shame and guilt and the constant, horrible awareness that life had gone very, very wrong in ways he couldn’t even begin to unpack.

Notes:

ooooh bros. the amount of scheming that's been done is crazy. peter's cooked ur honor

Peter sat slumped at the cafeteria table, poking at his tray. The carrots were pale, the chicken patty looked like it had been scraped off the floor, and there was a smear of something on his milk carton that might've been chocolate or might've been blood. He didn’t care. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t even present, not really.

 

He was marinating. That was the word. Marinating in shame and guilt and the constant, horrible awareness that life had gone very, very wrong in ways he couldn’t even begin to unpack.

 

So when Ned leaned across the table and said, “Okay, seriously, dude, what’s going on with you and Flash?” Peter locked up.

 

He blinked. “…What?”

 

“You’re acting super weird around him,” Ned pressed. His eyes narrowed. “Like, you’re avoiding him, you won’t sit within, like, fifty feet of him, and when he tries to talk to you, you look like you’re about to either hurl or faint. Talk.”

 

MJ, sitting beside him with her legs crossed under the table, looked up from her book. She gave him The Look. The one that peeled back skin and got right into the twitching, exposed nerves beneath. The one that said: I already know you’re lying, and I haven’t even asked you a question yet.

 

Peter’s mouth opened. Then closed. He stabbed the carrot into the mashed potatoes until it stood upright just to give him something to do.

 

“I-” he started.

 

“Uh-huh,” MJ said flatly.

 

“I’ve just - been busy…” Her eyebrows arched, and Peter wilted. He muttered, low, like maybe if he said it quietly enough they wouldn’t actually hear it. “…Flash thinks I’m an escort.”

 

There was silence. Blessed, brief silence. 

 

Then Ned went, “What?”

 

Peter rubbed both hands down his face. He wanted to peel it off and throw it into the mashed potatoes and never speak again. “He thinks - because of the cars, and the bruises, and Mr. Stark gave me the new phone to test but I think that’s just an excuse, and - and the gifts, you know, sometimes he sends me stuff, and Flash saw it, and he just - he thinks-”

 

He trailed off.

 

Ned’s shoulders started shaking.

 

“Don’t you dare,” Peter hissed.

 

Too late. Ned let out a strangled snort, then a full-on laugh. Loud. Obnoxious. Heads turned at nearby tables.  “Ned!” Peter snapped. Ned laughed harder, shoulders shaking. “It’s not funny! I’m not-”

 

MJ cut in flatly, “You shouldn’t be ashamed of sex work.”

 

Peter’s face burned. “Okay, look - yeah, I know it’s work, and I respect people who do it, I do, but that’s not - it’s the fact that he thinks I’m-” he floundered, “-selling ass to Mr. Stark!”

 

That was it. Ned folded in half across the table, wheezing so hard he nearly slid off the bench. His tray clattered dangerously close to the floor. He was red in the face, tears beading in the corner of his eyes.

 

Peter buried his own burning face in his hands. “Oh my god, oh my god-”

 

MJ finally deigned to put her book down. “So let me get this straight.” Her voice was sharp, precise, mildly terrifying. “Flash thinks you’re Mr. Stark’s… kept boy.”

 

“Don’t say it like that!” Peter groaned.

 

Ned slammed a fist on the table, laughing harder. “Kept boy! Oh my god! He really thinks - you and-”

 

“I’m going to die,” Peter muttered into his palms. “I’m literally going to combust. This is it. Tell my aunt I loved her, tell Mr. Stark I’m sorry, tell-”

 

“Tell Flash the hourly rate?” MJ suggested dryly.

 

Peter snapped his head up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “MJ!”

 

“What?” she said. “Might as well capitalize on the rumor. You could make a fortune.”

 

Ned nearly fell off the bench. People were looking now - actually staring - and Peter could feel the cafeteria’s collective attention shift in his direction. He had the sudden, visceral sensation of being onstage in front of the entire school, completely naked except for socks.

 

Which was, ironically, exactly the kind of mental image Flash probably had when he looked at him now. “I hate both of you,” Peter whispered.

 

“No you don’t,” MJ said, grinning.

 

Ned, finally catching his breath, wiped his eyes and wheezed, “Dude, you should’ve just told him the truth.”

 

“The truth is worse!” Peter hissed. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Oh no, Flash, I’m not a sex worker, I just happen to spend a lot of time in Stark Tower because Tony Stark is my - my-’” He faltered, because honestly, what was Tony to him? Guardian? Surrogate dad? Weird mentor who let him crash rent-free in a skyscraper while occasionally building him billion-dollar gadgets? “-because he’s Tony Stark, okay? And he’s nice, and sometimes he gives me stuff, and that’s all!”

 

“Yeah,” MJ said blandly. “That sounds way more believable.”

 

Peter wanted the floor to open up. Swallow him whole. Drop him into the molten core of the earth. But no, he was stuck here, with Ned wheezing and MJ grinning and the entire cafeteria staring at him without hopeful hearing too much. He stabbed the carrot deeper into the mashed potatoes and muttered, “I’m never coming back to school again.”

 

“Great,” MJ said, not looking up from her fries. “We’ll visit you in your sugar baby penthouse.”

 

Ned immediately started laughing again, wheezing into his carton of chocolate milk.

 

Peter punched him in the shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make Ned jolt like a guilty little kid caught stealing. Instead of shutting up, Ned just hauled Peter in by the neck, ruffling his hair in a way that was both affectionate and humiliating. Peter shoved him away, face burning, ears on fire, everything awful.

 

This was it. This was his legacy. Spider-Man, friendly neighborhood, saver of lives, protector of the innocent, allegedly doing butt stuff for an allowance.

 

He buried his face in his hands.

 

Ned was still laughing.

 

Peter groaned, letting his forehead thunk down onto the cafeteria table. It hurt, but not nearly enough to knock him unconscious and put him out of his misery. After a minute, he muttered into the wood, muffled and horrible, “I don’t even know if Flash thinks it’s Mr. Stark, because that would mean that he thinks I actually have the internship at SI I think he just sees the cars and… like, assumes rich dude. Happy probably didn’t help when he was rude the other day, so…”

 

MJ leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. Peter refused to look up.

 

Ned finally caught his breath and leaned in. “I mean… maybe lean into it? It’s a good cover, right? You’re always disappearing, and now you’ve got this whole billionaire benefactor narrative-”

 

“I don’t want to get a visit from CPS, actually,” Peter said flatly, head still down.

 

That shut Ned up for half a second, until MJ tilted her head and asked, “Then why’s he talking to you so much? Is he, like… curious?”

 

Peter’s head shot up so fast he nearly whacked Ned in the chin. “No!” he snapped. “No. He’s not - he just-” His brain whirred, frantic for an excuse that didn’t involve the humiliating truth about how Flash had gotten him fired, and how Flash apparently felt guilty enough to keep hovering. Peter swallowed, hands twitching against the table. “He just… feels bad, I think?”

 

MJ’s eyebrows hiked higher.

 

Peter stumbled, tripped, flailed his way through a half-convincing sentence. “I mean, he - uh. He asked me to come over. To his place.”

 

“What?” Ned breathed.

 

Peter winced. “Not like that! He - he thinks I’m that desperate for money-” you are, Parker, you literally are, “-and he offered to help? But not, like - like, he offered to pay me to do his homework, because I think he, like, pitied me or something, but I said I wouldn’t do his homework but I’d help him if he needed help, and-”

 

“You’re going over to Flash’s,” MJ cut in flatly, “because he thinks you’re a sex worker. And you’re going to get paid. But to do his homework.”

 

Peter slumped in his seat, face flaming, glaring at the tray of mashed potatoes like they had personally betrayed him. “Yeah,” he said miserably.

 

There was a pause. Then Ned leaned forward, eyes still wide with dawning horror and delight, and whispered, “…How much are you charging?”

 

Peter whipped around so fast his chair squealed across the floor, betrayal painted all over his face. “Ned!” he hissed mutinously. 

 

Ned threw his hands up like a man under arrest. “It’s a genuine question!”

 

MJ picked her book back up. “Yeah, Parker. Market research. Supply and demand.”

 

Peter made a strangled sound, and pressed his head back to the sticky cafeteria table.

 

—

 

Peter wasn’t sure why the empty silence in Flash’s house felt so loud.

 

The car ride over was a little awkward, too - Flash managing to find him in the hallway and walking Peter to his very expensive car in a way that felt like he was being walked into an execution. When he opened the door and slipped in, Peter couldn’t help but remember the time Flash had called out to him driving past, you’re too poor to even look at this thing, Penis.

 

Now, he was sitting in it.

 

Anyway. The car ride over was quiet, and so was his house; it wasn’t the kind of silence Peter was used to at home - May’s place had a soft, lived-in sort of quiet, one with the hum of the fridge and the muffled noises of neighbors coming through thin walls, maybe the distant sound of May singing along to a radio while she chopped vegetables on the off chance that their schedules lined up and they were home at the same time. Flash’s place, on the other hand, was cavernous. It was the kind of quiet that pressed on the inside of your ears and reminded you that you were standing in someone else’s wealth.

 

The front door had opened into a foyer big enough to fit Peter’s entire apartment twice over, with polished floors that looked like they’d never been walked on barefoot. The air smelled faintly expensive, like those stores where Peter was too nervous to touch anything because it all looked like it cost more than his non-existent college fund.

 

Flash didn’t say much as he led the way into the living room, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. The place was ridiculous. Ceiling so high Peter had to crane his neck just to see it. A TV so huge it made his own laptop screen look like a keychain. Plush white couches arranged in a way that said “decorator’s choice” more than “family hangout.” There was no sign of anyone else, no coats tossed over chairs or cups left on side tables.

 

Peter lowered himself onto the thick rug in front of the couch when Flash dropped his stuff there, tugging his notebook out of his bag. The carpet was so soft that Peter felt weird sitting on it in jeans, like maybe he was ruining something. It wasn’t the kind of rug that was supposed to have shoes - or poor kids with backpack straps fraying at the edges - sitting on it. He resisted the urge to glance around again, but the ridiculous chandelier above them seemed to loom no matter where he looked. Who even had chandeliers in their living room?  

 

Flash sat beside him, already opening his own books with a groan. “Okay, so. I have no idea what’s happening in physics.”

 

Peter gave him a small, sympathetic smile, flipping open his own notebook to the pages he’d marked earlier. “Yeah, you mentioned. Let’s start there.”

 

Flash dropped his pencil, then picked it back up like he was stalling for time “Alright. Pretend I’ve never heard of Newton or whatever. Teach me from scratch.”

 

“That’s-” Peter pressed his lips together, exhaling through his nose in the most long-suffering way possible. “That’s literally half the curriculum.”

 

Flash blinked at him, unbothered. “Yeah. So get to work, smartass.”

 

Peter resisted the urge to mutter something under his breath, and instead started scribbling out a simple problem. Something about velocity and mass - easy enough that Flash wouldn’t bolt in the first five minutes.

 

“Okay,” Peter said, tapping the pencil against the page. “Let’s try this one. Ball rolling down a hill, no friction. You plug in the numbers.”

 

Flash stared at it like the numbers were personally insulting him. He chewed his pencil. “...What hill?”

 

Peter winced. “Flash. It’s hypothetical. The hill doesn’t matter.”

 

“It matters to me,” Flash shot back. “Like - is it steep? Is it grassy? Because grass has friction.”

 

“Flash. No friction.”

 

Flash frowned, but he bent over the notebook anyway. “Fine. Whatever.”

 

He scribbled down an answer, clearly making a guess. Peter glanced over, lips twitching despite himself. “Yeah, no, that’s not right,” Peter said gently, taking the pencil and jotting a correction. “See, you forgot to convert the units. That’s why the number looks weird.”

 

Flash squinted, leaning in. “Wait, so… I just multiply this by that? And that fixes it?”

 

“Exactly.” Peter nudged the notebook back toward him. “Try it again. Same steps.”

 

Flash chewed his lip and copied the work slower this time, muttering numbers under his breath. When he got to the end, he hesitated. “Wait. I think I - did I-?”

 

Peter glanced. “Yeah. That’s it.” He grinned before he could stop himself, jabbing a finger at the answer. “See? Not that hard. You can do it.”

 

Flash let out a noise somewhere between disbelief and pride. “Shit - okay, I’m a genius. You’re welcome.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite keep the edge of a smile from tugging at his mouth. For once, Flash wasn’t being unbearable. It was… weird. Weird, but almost nice.

 

They went through a couple more problems, Flash stumbling through them but slowly improving. Peter was leaning over more and more, pointing things out, correcting mistakes. He pulled back when Flash shifted away out of instinct, and Peter tried not to take it personally. But that’s what he got for brushing knees with his childhood bully who also thought he was an escort, so… he’d take what he could get. 

 

It almost felt normal, like a regular study session with Ned and MJ. Except, of course, for the chandelier, the marble floors, and the fact that Flash had living room bigger than Peter’s entire apartment.

 

By the time Flash got one right entirely on his own, Peter yawned, stretching his arms above his head. His muscles ached from the day before and he winced when something popped. He let his arms drop back down with a sigh.

 

“See?” he said again, half teasing. “You’re basically a physicist now. I’ll make you a lab coat.”

 

Flash opened his mouth to retort, but whatever he was going to say cut off mid-thought. His gaze had snapped to Peter’s side, his eyes narrowing, focus sharp in a way that made Peter’s stomach clench.

 

It took Peter a second to realize why. His shirt had ridden up while he’d stretched, fabric dragging just enough to expose the edge of his stomach. He glanced down, confused, then froze.

 

A scar.

 

The small, puckered mark on his side, just above his hip. Pale, but unmistakable. It wasn’t neat, either - the kind of scar you got when you didn’t know what you were doing, when you were too panicked to clean it properly, too young to hold still while threading a needle through your own skin.

 

Peter dropped his arms fast, tugging the hem of his shirt down, heart thudding.

 

“Dude,” Flash said slowly, voice caught between horror and fascination. “What the hell is that?”

 

Peter blinked, forcing his face blank. “What?”

 

“That.” Flash pointed directly at him, pencil forgotten in his other hand. “On your side. That - what the - what is that?”

 

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. He scrambled for something, anything, but his mind was blank.

 

Great. Just… great.

 

His hand twitched as if he could just - smooth his shirt back down and pretend Flash hadn’t seen anything, but that would’ve been admitting there was something to cover in the first place. Which, unfortunately, there was.

 

“Uh,” Peter said intelligently.

 

Flash didn’t move his finger. “That. Your - dude, that’s a scar. Like, an actual - is that a bullet wound?”

 

Peter’s stomach tightened instantly, and he tugged his shirt down fast. “No. It’s - dude, it’s nothing.”

 

Flash’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not nothing. Let me see.”

 

“No.” Peter didn’t mean for it to come out so sharp, but the thought of peeling back his shirt and letting Flash of all people see the rest of it made his skin crawl.

 

Flash frowned. “Why not?”

 

“Because it’s none of your business,” Peter said, turning back to the worksheet. His fingers were tight around his pencil.

 

“You know, for someone who came over here to help me, you’re really bad at letting anyone help you,” Flash muttered.

 

Peter’s head snapped up. “I don’t need help.”

 

“Yes, you do.” Flash wasn’t grinning, and his face was serious in a way Peter rarely saw. “You’re putting yourself in danger by doing stupid sketchy shit for cash.”

 

Peter scoffed and looked back at the paper. “I’m not.”

 

“You are,” Flash said firmly. “Prove it.”

 

Peter blinked. “What?”

 

“Prove you’re not.”

 

“No!” Peter said immediately, heat rising in his face. The idea of explaining, of showing, was unthinkable. It would mean untangling too much, inviting too many questions he couldn’t answer without giving away everything, because how would he explain the hundreds of other scars he had, too?

 

Flash leaned back on his hands. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

 

Peter pressed his lips together, focusing on the numbers on the page, even though they’d started to blur a little. He could feel Flash’s gaze still on him, heavy and assessing, and he hated how much it made his skin prickle. “How would I even - prove I’m not a prostitute by stripping for you?”

 

It should have ended there. It could have ended there. But instead, Flash tilted his head and gave him this stubborn, probing look, like Peter was some kind of puzzle he’d been told not to touch and now had to touch. Then his hand twitched toward Peter’s shirt, fingers curling like he might just grab the hem and yank it up himself.

 

Peter reacted before he thought - before he even knew what he was doing. His body moved on instinct, all muscle memory and quick reflexes, and suddenly Flash was flat on his back on the carpet with a surprised, winded oomph, Peter’s knees bracketing his sides and both hands pressing him down by the shoulders.

 

Peter was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, his palms tight against Flash’s sweater, the fabric bunched under his fingers. The shock on Flash’s face was almost comical, but Peter couldn’t find anything funny about it. His brain was still catching up and adrenaline was making his pulse thud in his ears.

 

“Ow,” Flash wheezed, blinking up at him. “Okay. Fine. My bad. I’m keeping my hands to myself.”

 

Peter’s grip loosened immediately, horror kicking in as fast as the adrenaline had. “Crap - sorry.” He scrambled off him like the carpet had suddenly caught fire, retreating back to his own patch of floor. “I didn’t -  I wasn’t trying to-”

 

“No, that’s on me,” Flash interrupted, pushing himself upright with a grunt. He was still rubbing the back of his head, but his voice wasn’t angry. More… surprised, maybe. Or curious. “I shouldn’t have -  I mean, it just looks gnarly, dude.”

 

Peter’s mouth went dry. “It’s -  it’s nothing.”

 

Flash raised an eyebrow. “That’s not nothing. That’s like, ‘main character in a gritty action movie’ levels of nothing.”

 

Peter’s mind was already scrambling for something - anything - that didn’t involve telling Flash the truth. The lie tumbled out before he could stop it. “Got it when my uncle got mugged,” he said quickly, and silently apologized to Ben in his head. “Wasn’t - wasn’t a big deal.”

 

Flash’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit, that’s actually a bullet wound?”

 

Peter shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, but the way his shoulders tightened probably gave him away. “Kind of. Yeah.”

 

“Can I-” Flash hesitated for a second, like he knew he was crossing a line, “-can I see?”

 

Peter hesitated, too, weighing his options. Then he exhaled through his nose and lifted the hem of his shirt just enough to expose the small, puckered scar on his hip.

 

Flash leaned in a little, the curiosity in his eyes a little sharper now. He didn’t make a joke, didn’t say anything stupid - just reached out, slow enough that Peter could’ve stopped him if he wanted. His fingertips brushed lightly along the edge of the scar, warm against Peter’s skin, and for a split second Peter felt the faintest hitch in his own breath. Then the touch was gone, and Flash was leaning back like nothing had happened.

 

They both settled back onto the carpet, the space between them weirdly loaded now.

 

“Your life is insane,” Flash said finally, shaking his head.

 

Peter huffed out a short, dry laugh, eyes fixed on the workbook in front of him. “You have no idea.”

 

Flash gave him a look - something caught between disbelief and curiosity - but didn’t press it. Peter didn’t mind. He didn’t want to explain. The silence that followed wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but Peter could feel it settle, low and heavy, between them.

 

So he focused on the homework.

 

He hunched over his notebook, chewing at the end of his pencil while Flash sighed beside him. Peter moved through the last couple of problems on his own homework while Flash stumbled through his. Math was easy - it made sense, followed rules. People didn’t.

 

When Flash shoved his book over for Peter to check, Peter’s shoulders were still tight with leftover nerves. He scanned through the work, marked a couple mistakes, and slid the notebook back across the table.

 

“Done,” Peter said, resisting the urge to stretch his aching back.

 

“Finally,” Flash muttered. But his tone wasn’t sharp anymore, just weary. Peter started shoving his papers back into his bag, trying to smooth the edges before they crumpled, when he noticed Flash pulling out his wallet.

 

“How much do you usually charge?” Flash asked, flat, like it was nothing.

 

Peter blinked. “What?”

 

“C’mon,” Flash said. “I’m not an idiot. How much did you make at your other shitty job? You got, what, like sixty bucks a day?”

 

Peter stilled. His mouth went dry. Flash didn’t know. He had no idea how little Peter had actually been making under the table, how hard he’d scrambled just to keep things together. Flash was just that rich that sixty dollars was what he thought he could make in a day. “…No,” Peter said after a beat. “I… fifteen.”

 

Flash stared at him. “What. No. I… here.” He pulled out a bill, tossed it onto the table. “I’ve got a fifty.”

 

“No,” Peter said immediately, shaking his head. “I’m not - That’s too much.”

 

“You’ve been here for over two hours,” Flash said, impatient now. “That’s, what, twenty-five an hour? Take it.”

 

“I don’t make that much-”

 

“What about your other job?” Flash interrupted.

 

“My internship?” Peter asked dryly, eyebrows raising. 

 

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” Flash muttered. “Whatever. How much you get? Three hundred or so?”

 

“An SI internship is unpaid.”

 

“Sure it is,” Flash said flatly. He flicked a glance at Peter’s phone. “Did Tony Stark himself give you that too?” Peter bit his lip, looked down at his bag. “Take it,” Flash said again, pushing the fifty toward him.

 

Peter hesitated, then carefully slid out a twenty instead. “This is enough.”

 

“Take the rest,” Flash pressed.

 

“No.”

 

“What do you mean, no?” Flash frowned at him, incredulous.

 

“I’m not taking all your money,” Peter said, already shaking his head.

 

“It’s not a big deal, dude-”

 

“I already got more than enough,” Peter cut in, firm, though his voice was quieter than he wanted.

 

That clearly didn’t sit right with Flash. His expression twisted, stubborn, like he was gearing up for an argument. “You can’t just do all this work for pretty much nothing.”

 

“Yes, I can. And it’s not nothing. That’s plenty.”

 

“No, you can’t.” Flash shoved a couple of bills toward him, like that would settle it.

 

Peter leaned back, narrowing his eyes. “If you try to make me take your money, I’m going to give you all the wrong answers next time.”

 

“Next time?” Flash’s eyebrows shot up.

 

Peter froze, words catching in his throat. “Oh. Uh. I mean… if you want?” He rubbed the back of his neck, fumbling. “I just - you - no offense, but you’re terrible at this, dude. You’re gonna fail if you don’t get some help, and I have some free time now, so…”

 

Flash blinked at him, like he hadn’t expected Peter to offer. Then, slowly, he gave a considering shrug. “Okay. Yeah. That’d be cool. Same time next week?”

 

Peter’s chest warmed in a way he didn’t entirely understand. “Yeah,” he said, and the smile that followed wasn’t forced at all - it was bright and genuine and a little too quick.

 

He caught the way Flash’s gaze lingered on him for half a second too long before Flash abruptly looked away, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

 

Peter didn’t comment, but he noticed.

 

—

 

Peter had been staring at the suit for hours. Not really staring, technically, because his hands were busy pulling at one of the wrist gauntlets, carefully unscrewing the casing like it might explode if he twisted too fast. He wasn’t supposed to be messing with it too much - not without telling Mr. Stark - but it was easier to keep his head down and fuss with wires than to think about… well. 

 

Everything else.

 

Karen’s logs scrolled across the display in front of him. He flicked through them with a quick, distracted hand, pulling up timestamps, scanning through voice clips, cross-referencing locations with police reports. The numbers blurred into each other, half from how tired he was, half because he’d started shoving sesame chicken into his mouth without looking.

 

Breaking into burner phones had become almost second nature at this point. He wasn’t supposed to be doing it, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to quietly be doing it in Mr. Stark’s workshop, but it was just sitting there, the pile of confiscated phones on his desk, taunting him. He tapped the cracked screen of one, plugging it into the tower he’d jury-rigged into Karen’s feed, pretending he wasn’t holding his breath as the data crawled across.

 

Behind him, Mr. Stark was muttering to himself at his own table. Every so often there was the clatter of a tool or the hiss of welding, followed by a low hm. Peter shoved another forkful into his mouth. His jaw ached from chewing, but stopping wasn’t an option. He was starving.

 

He was always starving.

 

“Kid,” Mr. Stark’s voice called out. “You planning on inhaling the whole menu, or should I call the Guinness people?”

 

Peter swallowed, too fast, and nearly choked. “Uh. Yeah. I mean, no. I’m just - hungry.” He ducked his head, already scooping another bite into his mouth before Tony could press further.

 

He didn’t want to explain that it wasn’t about the food in front of him, not really. That he could eat until his stomach ached and still feel like something was gnawing at his ribs from the inside. That every bite felt both too much and not enough, and he never knew which it would be until afterward.

 

Besides, what was the point? Mr. Stark didn’t need to know. May didn’t need to know. Nobody did.

 

He packed up the rest before his stomach could protest, sliding the takeout boxes into a neat stack. Maybe he should’ve saved more of it for tomorrow. Or for May. Guilt curled low in his stomach as he taped one of the lids shut. He should’ve thought about it earlier. He should’ve - 

 

“Hey.”

 

Peter flinched before he realized Mr. Stark wasn’t scolding. The man had leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised, watching him with the kind of expression that made Peter want to both apologize and hide under the desk.

 

“You’re frowning so hard you’re gonna give yourself an ulcer. Or wrinkles. Neither’s a good look at fifteen.”

 

“I don’t-” Peter started, then realized he was frowning, hard enough that his jaw hurt. He smoothed his expression, which of course only made him more self-conscious. “I’m not. I wasn’t.”

 

“Sure,” Tony said dryly.

 

Lines of numbers and call logs blurred across his screen, burner phones tracked by sloppy connections, fragments of conversations he’d clawed back from encrypted files. Peter tapped through them compulsively, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Every few minutes, he flicked back to the gauntlet schematics Tony had left open, telling himself it was multitasking. Mostly it was distraction. If he stayed buried in the work, he didn’t have to think about the hunger he’d just admitted in the worst way possible, or the way his chest had tightened when he thought about May opening the fridge tomorrow and finding it empty again.

 

“Jesus, you’re gonna cross your eyes,” Tony muttered without looking up. He was elbow-deep in a repulsor housing, sleeves pushed up, glasses slipping down his nose. “What’d that log ever do to you?”

 

Peter startled, his pen pausing mid-tap against the notebook in his lap. “Huh? Oh. Nothing, I’m just - ” He shrugged, lips quirking like it was nothing. “I’m fine.”

 

“Yeah, sure. That’s your ‘I’m fine, now stop looking at me’ voice.” Tony twisted a component, tested the fit, and then, without warning, reached over and hooked an arm around Peter’s middle. “C’mere, Underoos. You’re gonna grind your teeth into dust.”

 

Peter hesitated. He was comfortable where he was, curled up at his workbench with the suit guts spread out in front of him. Comfortable in the way that meant he could pretend nobody else was in the room. But Mr. Stark’s hand was already lifting, beckoning him, and Peter knew from experience that ignoring him wasn’t worth it.

 

So he stood, shoved the chair back with a scrape, and padded over.

 

Tony caught him by the wrist, half-tugged him down to sit on the edge of his chair. The movement startled Peter enough that he forgot to be tense about it. His shoulder bumped the man’s arm, his knee brushed the side of the table, and Tony didn’t shove him away. Didn’t tense up. Didn’t make a face like Peter had crossed some invisible line. 

 

Instead, he leaned back, relaxed, like this was fine. Normal.

 

Peter… leaned in. Just a little. The contact was nice. The warmth soaked into his skin in a way that made his chest ache. He leaned into the pull before he could stop himself, shoulder settling against Tony’s side. It was warm there. Steady. The kind of casual contact Tony never would have allowed months ago

 

“You okay?” he asked, glancing down at him with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t far off.

 

Peter nodded, unsure what to do with his hands, so he let them rest against his thighs. His brain had started buzzing in that weird way it always did when someone touched him for longer than a second. Too much, too fast. But Tony didn’t seem bothered.

 

He’d gotten a lot less cautious lately, Peter realized. Less careful about brushing against his shoulder when they were working on something, less wary about dropping a hand on Peter’s back to nudge him along.

 

It was… nice.

 

Nice in a way Peter didn’t really know how to deal with.

 

It felt more like they were - friends. Not boss and intern, not mentor and project. Not charity case and benefactor. Just… friends.

 

The thought made Peter’s throat tight. He looked down quickly, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

 

“Don’t overthink it,” Stark said lightly, but the way his gaze lingered made Peter wonder if he’d already been caught.

 

Too late, he thought. He was always overthinking it.

 

And if he didn’t keep busy - if he didn’t keep moving - he’d have to sit with everything he’d been avoiding. The gnawing hunger. The guilt. The way the silence in his room stretched too long when May was working late. The way his chest ached with something he couldn’t fix.

 

So he leaned a little harder into Mr. Stark’s side, and let himself pretend for a few minutes that the world wasn’t pressing down on him. He let his head rest briefly against Tony’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut for half a second before he forced them open again. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

 

“You’re always tired.” Tony’s tone was half chiding, half amused. “Maybe stop inhaling three pounds of noodles at once and your body won’t immediately shut down afterwards.”

 

Peter flushed, ducking his head. “I wasn’t - okay, maybe a little. But it’s been a long week.”

 

Tony hummed, clearly unconvinced. Then he slid the gauntlet schematics across the display. “Speaking of long weeks. Kid, weigh in on this. Not because I need help or anything, but I could use a second set of eyes. I’ve been trying to adjust the charge dispersal without overloading the core. Thoughts?”

 

Peter blinked, refocusing on the familiar lines and numbers. His brain lagged a beat behind. “Uh… maybe stagger the capacitor timing? You’d get a cleaner release if you offset them instead of firing simultaneously.” He pointed, tracing the line of the diagram. “It’d bleed off excess without spiking.”

 

Tony paused. Then let out a low whistle. “You do this on no sleep and a full stomach? I can barely get you to string a sentence together in English after pizza.”

 

“I-” Peter covered a yawn with the back of his hand. “It’s not that complicated.”

 

“Complicated enough you’re about to face-plant into my schematics.” Tony snorted, watching his eyelids droop. “Look at you. All it takes is one decent meal and you turn into Sleeping Beauty.”

 

Peter groaned, tugging at his sleeves to hide his burning ears. “That’s not - ugh, Mr. Stark-”

 

“Uh-huh.” Tony’s grin softened as his hand lingered on Peter’s arm. Then his expression shifted, brows pulling together. “Kid, you’re freezing. Seriously. It’s like hugging a popsicle. Get a jumper or something.”

 

Peter stiffened. “It’s fine. I just… I have bad thermoregulation.” He forced a shrug, keeping his tone light. “It’s kind of a spider thing.”

 

“I know that.” Tony sounded faintly miffed, like Peter had just insulted his intelligence. “But that means you should try harder to stay warm, too. Don’t just let yourself freeze.”

 

Peter’s gaze dropped to his knees. The jumper shoved at the bottom of his bag was too ripped and stained to wear here. Too embarrassing, too obvious. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that. So he just gave another shrug. “It’s fine.”

 

Tony rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. His hand skimmed up and down Peter’s arm like he could manually generate heat that way, the motion brisk and oddly reassuring. Peter let himself relax into it, eyelids dragging low again. The steady sound of Tony’s tools, the weight of the lab’s silence beyond, and the warmth pressed into his side were all conspiring against him. His body sagged against Tony’s chair without his permission, every muscle heavy with exhaustion.

 

“Aight, that’s it.” Tony snapped the casing back onto the gauntlet and set it down with a decisive clunk. “We’re calling it. Bed time.”

 

Peter groaned, muffled by his own sleeve. “I’m fine…”

 

“You’re half asleep on your feet. No arguments.” Tony stood, stretching his back, then jerked his head toward the elevator. “C’mon. You can take your room.”

 

Peter blinked, lifting his head. “The spare room?”

 

Tony’s shrug was casual, but his tone wasn’t. “It’s pretty much yours now, kid. No one else ever uses it.”

 

Something in Peter’s chest tightened, warmth spreading like sunlight through the cracks. Yours. Not a guest room. Not temporary. His. The thought was dizzying, almost too much to hold. He let himself imagine it for a second - what it would be like to stay, to fall asleep in a bed that was his, to wake up without the cold hollow quiet of the apartment, without the gnawing question of whether May had eaten that day.

 

His lips parted. “I-”

 

But then reality crashed back in, heavy as ever. May, home alone. The fridge with its empty shelves. The rent notice still stuck to the door. The guilt that never seemed to let go. He swallowed hard, shoulders curling.

 

“No,” Peter said after a beat. His voice was soft, apologetic. “I… sorry. I want to stay, but I should probably head home. I’ve got some stuff I’ve gotta do.”

 

The words sat like a stone in his gut. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the warmth offered to him, but instead he shoved it aside.

 

Peter’s fingers lingered on the window ledge longer than necessary. His stomach was tight from the food - warm, almost uncomfortably so, the way it felt after days of skimming by on not nearly enough. It was absurd how much difference meal could make, how it had left his body sluggish. He didn’t want to swing home. He wanted to curl up under one of the lab benches where it was nice and safe and dark and fall asleep for the next three months. But Tony was watching, and the thought of letting Mr. Stark see how much he wanted was unbearable.

 

So he smiled, thin and quick, and ducked out before the wobble in his knees could betray him.

 

The night air hit him cold, sharper than usual, and it clawed immediately into his bones. His body always seemed to run a few degrees too low, and tonight it was worse than usual. Wind pressed the cold air flat against him until it seeped in through the suit, kissed the edges of his joints and curled inside. He shivered and told himself it was fine. He had swung in worse conditions. He had swung in the rain, in the snow, with cuts open and with ribs taped tight. 

 

He could handle a little cold.

 

The city stretched under him, all glittery and alive in the way it always was at night. For a few minutes, swinging almost helped; but every time he landed, his knees buckled a fraction, his arms shook a little harder when he gripped the line. His body kept reminding him how close to collapse he was. He kept ignoring it.

 

May’s apartment came into view far sooner than he wanted. His chest squeezed tight at the sight of the familiar brick, the small lit window. He slowed, touched down on the roof, and crouched there for a long moment with his backpack strap digging into his shoulder. He didn’t want to go in. He wanted to crawl into the spare bed at the Tower, the one Mr. Stark had said was basically his, and let himself sink into sheets that smelled faintly of detergent instead of dust. But May was here, alone, and she worried. Always.

 

And he loved her. Just because their situation sucked didn’t mean he wanted her to be alone.

 

So he quickly stripped out of the suit and shrugged his clothes back on. The spandex went into the bottom of the bag, tucked under his notebooks and hoodies, and he changed into a pair of soft, worn sweatpants and an old t-shirt that smelled faintly like laundry detergent and dust. 

 

Then, he dragged his legs down the fire escape.

 

Peter slipped back into the apartment through the front door this time. It was late enough that the hallway was quiet, lights dimmed, and he closed the lock softly behind him, holding his breath like it mattered. His backpack sagged against his shoulder with the weight of the containers, the straps digging in, and for once the heaviness was comforting.

 

He kicked his shoes off by the door and shrugged out of his jacket.  

 

May was at the table. She hadn’t noticed him at first - she was sitting in her robe, shoulders curved inward, one elbow resting on the wood as she idly pushed at the remains of dinner with her fork. The food was cold, takeout from the night before, and he remembered she hadn’t really eaten then, either. The living room lamp spilled weak light over her hair, catching on strands that had come loose from her bun.

 

“Hey,” Peter said, voice careful in the quiet.

 

Her head lifted. She smiled, small, tired, but real. “Hey, baby.” She reached out across the table when he came closer, her hand warm around his when he gave it to her. Just a squeeze, gentle and lingering, and then she let him go. “How was your day?” 

 

“Good,” Peter said automatically. Then, to fill the space, he added, “I, uh - I brought food.”

 

He slipped the containers out of his bag, careful not to let the bright red and blue peeking from underneath show. He held the bags up for her to see. “Mr. Stark ordered too much. I figured we could keep it for later.”

 

May’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling. “You always think ahead. Thank you, sweetie.”

 

Peter ducked his head and carried the food into the kitchen, tucking it neatly into the fridge. The cool air ghosted against his face, sharp and damp, and for a second it was good . It felt good to be able to leave something behind, something useful.

 

He could be useful. He could prove his worth.

 

When he turned back, May was still poking halfheartedly at her plate. The fork scratched against porcelain, but she hadn’t really eaten any more than when he first walked in.

 

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked before he could stop himself.

 

Her eyes flicked to him. The smile she gave was thin, pressed at the edges. “Not really. Haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

 

Peter frowned. “Not even a little? You should-”

 

“I’m fine, Peter.” She cut him off gently, lowering the fork. “Probably just tired.”

 

He hovered by the counter, unease pulling at him. She looked… smaller, somehow. Not just tired. Pale under the lamp light, the kind of pale that wasn’t from missing sleep. Her shoulders seemed to sag even when she was sitting upright.

 

He pressed his lips together. Maybe it was the flu. Or stress - she’d been working so much lately, double shifts and paperwork and bills that were past-due. It made sense she’d be run-down.

 

Still, the worry curled in his chest and didn’t let go.

 

“You’ve been working too hard,” Peter said quietly. “You’re gonna burn yourself out.”

 

May only smiled, tight-lipped. “Don’t worry about me, baby. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

 

But he did worry. He couldn’t not. He watched her gather her plate and carry it to the sink, movements slower than usual, her back turned so he couldn’t see her face. His chest felt heavy, like something had lodged there.

 

He wanted to ask again - but her voice was soft when she said she was going to get ready for bed, and Peter bit back the words. He let her retreat down the hall, the sound of her footsteps muffled against the floorboards, until the apartment was quiet again.

 

Left standing in the kitchen, he glanced at the fridge, at the neatly stacked containers inside. His chest ached.

 

Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe she’d be hungry again.

 

Left standing in the kitchen, Peter glanced again at the fridge, at the neatly stacked containers he’d just shoved inside. The condensation was already beading against the plastic lids, running down in thin streaks like sweat. His chest ached.

 

Tomorrow would be better. Maybe she’d eat the cashew chicken and laugh about how he always brought home too much.

 

He scrubbed at his face with both hands, pressed his palms hard into his eyes until the spots flared behind them, then let out a sharp breath. He didn’t want to think about it - about her smile that was stretched too thin, about the way her shoulders seemed smaller every time he saw her sitting at that kitchen table. She said she was tired. Just tired. That was it.

 

He wanted to believe her.

 

Dragging himself down the hall, Peter pushed into his room and shut the door quietly behind him. The soft click sounded too loud in the silence of the apartment, but May didn’t call out, didn’t check in. Of course she didn’t. She was probably already in her room, curled up under the blanket, telling herself she’d feel better in the morning.

 

He dropped his bag against the bed. The weight of the suit pulled at the straps, making a dull thud against the floor, and the sound carried like guilt through his chest. He couldn’t sit with it. Couldn’t sit with the image of her smile and the way it hadn’t reached her eyes.

 

So he sat on the edge of the mattress instead, pulled the zipper open, and dug around until his fingers brushed over the cheap plastic. Burner phones. Half a dozen of them, battered and dirty, like they’d lived in someone’s pocket for months before being tossed aside. He stacked them in front of him on his desk as he tugged his mask down into place.

 

“Karen,” he said, voice muffled under the fabric. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”

 

“Of course, Peter. I’ve cross-referenced the call logs from the three active numbers. Two show regular pings along the same cell towers in Queens and Brooklyn. The third has irregular usage but frequently overlaps locations with the other two.”

 

Peter’s hands tightened on one of the phones. His thumb rubbed over the scratched surface like he could erase the fingerprints still lingering there.

 

“I need names,” he murmured, uneasy. “Or places. Somewhere I can start.”

 

“Working on that,” Karen said. “Decrypting message fragments now. Progress: thirty-seven percent.”

 

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, heart thumping too fast. He was supposed to be doing homework, supposed to be sleeping so he could function at school tomorrow. Instead, he couldn’t. He felt sick with the extra weight of the burner phones, of May’s appetite, of everything else that was going wrong in his life.

 

It’d be fine. It had to be. 

 

If he could crack these numbers, trace them, get ahead of whatever they were planning - then maybe fewer kids would end up missing. Maybe fewer families would be torn apart. Maybe he could actually do something.

 

His stomach twisted, heavy from the food he’d inhaled earlier. He should’ve saved more. He should’ve been smarter. His chest pinched at the thought of May’s mostly untouched plate.

 

He tried to shove it away.

 

Work now. Think later.

 

Peter set his jaw and bent over the phone, the glow of his suit’s lenses reflecting back at him from the cracked black screen.

 

If he just kept moving, kept working, he wouldn’t have to think about the ache sitting in his chest like it wanted to hollow him out. He wouldn’t have to think about how quiet the apartment had been when he walked in.

 

He could ignore all of that, for now.

 

The room felt smaller; the walls too close, the air stale. The fridge downstairs had nothing in it but milk, two eggs, and a takeout carton he wasn’t sure was safe anymore. Bills piled on the counter with sharp red lettering. And May was doing everything she could, working shifts until her eyes burned, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

 

And across the city there was another room, one that Tony had said was his. No bills. No empty fridge. No constant, gnawing fear that tomorrow would mean something worse. He’d felt it tonight - the difference, the safety, the way Tony had made sure he ate, made sure he was warm, made sure he knew he was wanted.

 

His chest ached at the memory, a strange pull he didn’t know what to do with.

 

Peter laid back without even changing, eyes burning. The ceiling above him blurred. He wanted to cry and couldn’t. He wanted to sleep and couldn’t. His body hummed with food and fatigue, but his brain kept spinning, running through everything at once; May’s exhaustion, the press of Tony’s hand on his shoulder, the embarrassing rush of gratitude when FRIDAY had confirmed an extra order of cashew chicken just for him.

 

The kindness cut sharper than cruelty ever had.

 

He curled onto his side, pulling his knees up, and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes until stars burst behind them, blinking back open to see the progress bar loading and ticking over to fifty percent, now. He told himself he was fine. He told himself he didn’t need more than what he already had. He told himself it was selfish to want anything else.

 

He could do good and help people, and that would be enough for him.

 

But still, in the quiet, the thought whispered through: I wish I could stay there.

 

Notes:

tws for mentioned trafficking again, flash thinking peter's being abused more lmfao

look. look bro is not coping. its okay. i will make everything worse then fix him :3

(editing a day later, because this is a big fat lie. i actually made myself cry writing one of the scenes in the future, and thats never happened before after the 2million words of shit i've put bro through. i think he's actually well and truly cooked in this fic bros)

Chapter 5: hands

Summary:

Peter crouched on the roof with his knees drawn up, the city spread below. Neon signs buzzed. A cab honked three streets over. Someone laughed too loud outside a deli.

All of it was normal. His gloves were still sticky. He pressed his palms hard against his knees, like if he pushed deep enough the feeling would leave his skin. It didn’t.

Notes:

its so over

i had an ass day at my prac so fuckit instead of doing my homework yall get a long chapter and im dragging peter down w me

Peter crouched on the roof with his knees drawn up, the city spread below. Neon signs buzzed. A cab honked three streets over. Someone laughed too loud outside a deli. 

 

All of it was normal. His gloves were still sticky. He pressed his palms hard against his knees, like if he pushed deep enough the feeling would leave his skin. It didn’t.

 

He could still see the hallway when he shut his eyes - the damp stink of it, the flickering bulb overhead, the way everything had gone too quiet after the fight. It should have been a victory. He had found them, torn through the locks, webbed up men who were already reaching for weapons. He’d gotten people out. That was the important part. That was supposed to be the only part that mattered.

 

But the last room-

 

His breath hitched.

 

The last room had been worse.

 

He hadn’t even let himself look too long, hadn’t dared to. Just shapes in the dark, curled bodies and one of them barely conscious, face swollen so badly it was hard to make out where the bruises ended and the skin began. He’d lifted them, weightless with how little was left of them, carried them down fire stairs that smelled like rust and mold. He’d handed them off to paramedics, answered questions, forced his voice to stay even, and the moment he was alone again he’d been sick in an alleyway, mask yanked up to his nose as if that could somehow shield him from himself.

 

Now, hours later, the acid burn was still at the back of his throat.

 

Peter wiped at his mouth again though it was pointless now, and pressed his forehead against his knees. The cold wind cut at his damp hair and it felt like punishment. He wanted it to. He deserved it. He’d been too slow. Too late.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be this hard anymore. He’d done rescues before. He’d walked into rooms that smelled like blood and worse. He’d seen bruises, heard the way people begged or stayed silent, whichever survival mechanism had gotten them through. He’d dealt with all of it. That was the job. That was Spider-Man.

 

But this-

 

This was different.

 

He thought of hands. Big ones, mean ones, calloused in the wrong ways. He thought of how easy it was for someone to grip too tight, he remembered the roof of his bedroom, the magazines beside him while he stared up and tried to imagine being anywhere but there. How easy it was to be small and powerless and trapped in somebody else’s choice.

 

Skip’s face flashed in his head unbidden, anyway. It came sideways, sudden, sharp, and gone again before he could breathe. He hated himself for still remembering. He hated all of it.

 

He tugged off his mask and dug his fingers into his hair, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to think like maybe he could block it all out.

 

The people he’d pulled out tonight - they had probably been kids, too. Some of them younger than him, some his age, some older but not by much. And they’d all been stuck and left waiting in the dark for someone to notice. Someone to come.

 

His stomach turned again. He swallowed it down hard. No more alleys, no more bedrooms, no more weakness.

 

He forced himself to breathe, to focus on the skyline, the rhythm of traffic, the city’s pulse that didn’t care if he broke apart right here on the rooftop. That was the thing about New York. It kept moving, no matter what. Maybe that was why he loved it and why he couldn’t leave it even when it gutted him.

 

It was cruel and stabilizing in its consistency. It would always be there, even if the world fell apart around him.

 

Everything hurt. His ribs ached where someone had landed a good hit. His knuckles were raw under the gloves. His back throbbed in a way that promised bruises by morning. The adrenaline was bleeding out of him, leaving him cold and hollow and too awake.

 

Tomorrow. He couldn’t do this tomorrow.

 

He would. He always did. But for now, for tonight - he told himself he was staying home. Just one day. Just to breathe. Just to remember what it was like to sit at a kitchen table and pretend he was just Peter Parker, ordinary kid with homework and a tired aunt who didn’t know how close they were to eviction and the world falling away underneath them.

 

He needed another job. He needed to help more people.

 

He lifted his head and stared at the stars he could barely see through the city haze. His eyes burned.

 

Maybe tomorrow would be better.

 

— 

 

Flash had told himself the whole walk over that this was just about making sure Parker wasn’t actually dying or whatever. Nothing else. 

 

He wasn’t doing the whole concerned-friend thing. Definitely not. He was just… curious. And maybe a little disturbed. He hadn’t come to school - not that Flash had been, like… looking for him, but there was an empty space at his usual table. But he’d overheard a hushed call where Ned was saying stuff about Peter staying in bed, asking if he needed someone to come over, saying something about “how bad is it this time?” and “are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” Flash hadn’t caught every word, but he’d caught enough to feel the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

 

So, fine. He’d taken the long way after ditching class, doubled back down Parker’s block after he’d managed to get his address out of Ned - who’d just looked at him weird, but eventually conceded when Flash had muttered that it was to drop off his notes - and now he was standing outside the crappy little apartment building trying to convince himself this wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d ever done.

 

He took the stairs, and tried not to think too hard about what he was going to say. 

 

He knocked, and there was no answer. He texted, too, but there was no response; he was tempted to turn and just go home before he tried the handle for the hell of it. Except - when he tried the door, it wasn’t even locked.

 

That was… insane. This was Queens. It wasn’t exactly a good neighbourhood out here. And Parker? The guy lived with just his aunt. Didn’t he think about break-ins? Robbery? Worse?

 

Flash stepped inside, half-ready to call out and half-waiting for some elderly lady to appear and yell at him, but the place was quiet. Not suspicious quiet, not creepy horror-movie quiet - just… regular, everyday, apartment quiet. He could hear faint water sounds down the hall. Bathroom, maybe.

 

He hesitated. He should have called first. Or knocked harder, apparently. Or literally anything besides just walking in like he owned the place. But some part of him was already justifying it - if the door was unlocked, it was basically an open invitation. Right? Right.

 

And then Parker appeared in the hall, and Flash’s brain stalled so hard it almost blue-screened. For a moment, his brain flatlined.

 

Peter was just… there. Standing in the hallway like it was any other normal Tuesday afternoon - except instead of being in his usual hoodie or one of those dumb science t-shirts, he was shirtless, damp hair clinging to his forehead, a roll of gauze still dangling from one hand. And instead of being just scrawny little Parker, he was wrecked. Bruises painted up his ribs like somebody had taken a baseball bat to him. His shoulder was mottled purple, a black eye blooming so fresh it still looked glossy. And then there was the bandage, bright white against his stomach, with a deep, slow-spreading blot of red right at its center.

 

Flash froze.

 

Parker froze, too.

 

They stared at each other like two deer caught in the same set of headlights.

 

“What the-” Flash’s voice came out hoarse, almost cracking. “What the hell happened to you?”

 

Peter’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he’d just been caught doing something illegal. Which - given the literal stab wound - Flash wasn’t ruling out. “I - uh-” Peter’s eyes darted to the side, away from Flash’s stare, like he was trying to find the fastest route to an excuse. “What are you doing here?”

 

“You left your door unlocked!” Flash shot back incredulously. “And you went MIA and - dude, what the fuck is that?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Peter said, scurrying past him to tug the door shut and latching it, this time. “Just - an accident.”

 

“An accident?” Flash’s voice shot up an octave. “That’s not an accident, that’s - you look like you've been stabbed, dude! Your stomach is purple. Who gave you that black eye?”

 

Peter winced, like the volume was physically hurting him. “Keep your voice down!” he hissed.

 

The sharpness of it made Flash shut up for a second, but his brain was still running in panicked loops. What could cause this? Who could do this?   

 

“Was it-” He stopped, because every possibility felt wrong to even say.

 

“It’s fine,” Peter muttered, turning away like that would make the whole thing disappear like he’d been caught with bad hair instead of an injury that screamed hospital visit. “I’ve got it handled.”

 

Flash took a step after him. “You’ve got it handled? Parker, you look like you got the shit beat out of you!”

 

Peter’s jaw tightened, and for the briefest moment he looked cornered. “It’s just - stuff. I can’t - look, I’m fine. It’s not the first time.”

 

Not the first time.

 

The words hit Flash like a punch, because not the first time? Not the first time? How many times had Parker ended up like this? Something cold and ugly was curling in Flash’s stomach. Ned’s call, and the bruises he’d sometimes seen peeking out from Parker’s sleeves. The way Parker kept dodging eye contact now. “Does your aunt know about this?” Flash asked, already half-knowing the answer.

 

Peter hesitated. Too long. “She - uh - she works a lot.”

 

“Peter,” Flash said slowly, his voice low now. “If this is because of-”

 

Peter cut him off. “Don’t. It’s fine.” 

 

Flash wanted to shake him. “Dude. You’re bleeding on your carpet!”

 

Peter just made a noise in his throat, something between a sigh and a groan, and turned away again, heading for what Flash guessed was his bedroom. “You’re overreacting.”

 

Overreacting. Sure. Because seeing someone actively bleeding in their own apartment was totally an overreaction. Flash was already kind of sick with the look, because sure he was an asshole who hit him every now and then, but - his torso was a sickly watercolor blur of purples and greens, and it looks like someone had been whaling on him.

 

And Flash had a sick feeling he already knew what had happened.

 

The hallway suddenly felt too small, and Peter, for his part, didn’t look nearly as horrified as Flash thought he should. 

 

“It’s fine,” Peter said again, and his voice had this weird, almost tired casualness to it, like Flash had walked in on him brushing his teeth.

 

It was not fine. It was the opposite of fine.

 

Before Flash could even find words, Peter was already moving past him, opening the room to his door as if the giant stab wound in his gut was just another item on a to-do list. “Seriously,” he added over his shoulder, “don’t freak out.”

 

Right. Sure. Don’t freak out. Like that was going to happen.

 

Flash’s body moved before his brain caught up, trailing after Peter into the bedroom. The door was half-open, the bed a mess of crumpled sheets and scattered notebooks, like he’d been trying to do homework in between… whatever this was. Peter bent down to dig through the mess on his desk for a shirt, and something inside Flash went tight when he saw a handprint or a fist mark on his hip.

 

He grabbed Peter by the shoulder - gently, but firmly enough to stop him - and turned him until he bumped into the desk behind him.

 

“Dude,” Flash said, and it came out hoarse. His hands hovered, not quite touching, but wanting to. Every bruise, every wince Peter didn’t quite manage to hide, felt like it was drilling straight into Flash’s skull. He wanted to peel the bandages back, see how bad it really was, but also didn’t want to know because he was pretty sure knowing would make him feel more sick than he already did.

 

Knowing Peter was getting hurt and seeing it were two completely different things.

 

Peter looked back at him and was so calm in a way that didn’t match the situation at all. “They’ll be off by tonight,” he said, nodding toward the bandages. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Don’t worry about it.

 

Like he’d just gotten a paper cut.

 

Flash stared at him, really stared, and desperately tried to find the part where this made any kind of sense without letting it show on his face. Peter wasn’t clumsy enough to just… trip onto a knife, and those bruises weren’t from one bad fall - they were layered, some fresh, some yellowing, like he’d been collecting them over time. Someone had hurt him, deliberately, over and over again. He was covered in all sorts of scars, too - and Flash realised with a dawning horror that most of them were old, and whatever was causing this had been happening for a while, which was - insane.

 

All of this was insane.

 

Because Peter was already too young to be involved with that kind of shit. The women Flash saw at those parties weren’t old, either, but at least they looked like they were out of highschool.

 

His heart was beating too fast, and his hands were still there, bracketing Peter against the desk without meaning to, close enough that he could feel the warmth coming off him. He didn’t know why he was leaning in, why it felt like the air between them had gone thin.

 

He raised his hand carefully like he was going to reach out and brush one of the particularly nasty healed scars that laced along his ribcage (his narrow, dipping ribcage. He looked so fit but so skinny, too, and-)

 

Peter blinked up at him. Just a flicker of surprise, then something else - something almost challenging - before his gaze dropped for a second, right to Flash’s mouth.

 

Flash’s throat went dry.

 

And then- 

 

The jingle of keys snapped through the moment like a gunshot.

 

They sprang apart instantly. Flash stepped back so fast he hit the edge of the bed, and Peter went rigid. The front door opened, and a second later a woman’s voice called out, warm and oblivious, “Peter? You home?”

 

“Yeah!” Peter’s voice pitched too high, and he scrambled for the nearest hoodie, yanking it over his head in a motion that made him flinch hard enough for Flash to notice.

 

Flash couldn’t decide if his pulse was still racing because of the weird (absolutely not an almost-kiss because what the fuck) thing that had just happened or because Peter’s aunt was about to walk in and see all of this. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. His brain was looping over the bruises, the stab wound, the way Peter had acted like all of this was just... normal. And under it all, a gnawing, ugly thought kept circling, because this wasn’t an accident. Someone was hurting him, and he was covering for them, and he was hiding it.

 

And worse - what if he got hurt again?

 

He didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But the thought was there, sharp and insistent, and it wasn’t going away.

     

Flash had been bracing himself for a lot of things after May walked in on… whatever the hell that had just been, but somehow Peter leaping halfway across the room like a startled cat and diving under the covers was not one of them. She appeared in the doorway a second later, holding a grocery bag, and paused just long enough to give both of them that suspicious what’s going on here? look.

 

Peter plastered on a smile so quick it was almost impressive. “Hey, May. Uh - Flash just dropped by.”

 

His brain was still trying to reconcile what the actual hell had just happened in the past thirty seconds - the shove, the heat of Peter’s body when he’d leaned in without thinking, the half-second where they’d been looking at each other like - well, like they were about to do something monumentally stupid - and now this stupid cover story.

 

It was so absurd he almost laughed.

 

Almost.

 

May raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you boys supposed to be at school?”

 

“Uh - yeah,” Peter said, voice high and a little too quick, like he was scrambling to fill the silence. “I’m not feeling great, and Flash just came over to drop off my notes.”

 

Flash blinked. Notes. Right. That was apparently what he’d been doing. Never mind that he’d barged into the apartment without knocking because the door was unlocked, or that Peter had been shirtless and bleeding from a literal stab wound, or that they’d just been - God, what had they been doing? He didn’t even have the vocabulary for it. It felt like it should fall into the “fight or kiss” category, except there hadn’t actually been a fight.

 

May’s expression softened immediately. “Oh, that’s nice of you. You didn’t have to miss school for that.”

 

The reasonable thing would’ve been to say, oh, yeah, no big deal, I was just in the neighborhood, and make it sound casual. But the adrenaline still hadn’t fully drained from Flash’s system, and he was hyper-aware of how every word he said could give away that something was very, very wrong. So instead, his mouth moved without his brain’s permission.

 

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” he said, with what he hoped was a harmless smile. “I’ve got a free period.”

 

Big lie. He did not have a free period. He had AP Chem. He was probably already on Mr. Cobwell’s bad side for the week.

 

Peter was giving him that side-eye that looked like he was thinking you absolute idiot, but May just smiled again and went back to kicking her shoes off. The door to her room shut a moment later, and for a second, Flash thought he could finally breathe. - but Peter was still watching him, eyes sharp despite the too-pale skin and the fact that he had a black eye like he’d just gone ten rounds with a cement wall. The silence stretched, until Flash blurted it out before he could stop himself.

 

“She doesn’t know?”

 

Peter bristled. “There’s nothing to know!” he hissed back, his voice cracking like it was trying to make a break for a different octave. “I’m not a-”

 

The bedroom door creaked open again. Flash practically jumped out of his skin, spinning toward it like he’d been caught stealing. May leaned in, looking even more tired up close, rubbing at her eyes. “Sorry to interrupt again. Peter, I’m dead on my feet but there’s food in the fridge if you guys are hungry. Flash, you can take whatever you want.”

 

That was it. That was all she said. Just a simple, casual kindness, no suspicion in her tone, and that somehow hit Flash harder than if she’d started grilling him with questions. She was so nice. It made him want to curl up and die, because she clearly trusted Peter was fine, and meanwhile Flash knew he wasn’t.

 

His throat tightened, and he had to look away so she wouldn’t see how much that got to him. “Thanks,” he managed, trying to keep it even.

 

The second the bedroom door shut again, Peter was on him. “Okay, you need to go.”

 

“What? No. We’re talking about this,” Flash said, because there was no way he was just going to walk out after that. He had questions. He had so many questions, and if Peter thought he could dodge them forever, he was dead wrong.

 

“Flash-” Peter’s tone was flat and final. “Seriously. You need to leave.”

 

Flash stared. Peter tugged a little more at his hoodie. “I… okay,” he said dumbly. “I - here,” he shrugged off his bag and pulled out his books before dropping them on Peter’s desk, and his eyes caught on three different phones that were sitting there. He glanced back at Peter, who surged out of bed to swoop them up. "For - the... uh, the classes you missed."

 

Flash stared. Peter pressed his head into his hands. “Thank you for the notes,” he said, muffled by his hands. “Please get out and never come back.”

 

And just like that, he was back at the front door, the handle under his palm before he even registered that Peter had successfully herded him there like some kind of wounded, stubborn sheepdog. He stepped out into the hall, still half-expecting Peter to say something - anything - that would make what he’d just seen make sense.

 

But the door shut in his face instead.

 

And all Flash could think as he stood there was: Yeah. We’re definitely talking later.

 

—

 

The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. 

 

Peter sat at the counter with a glass of water in front of him, watching condensation bead on its sides, waiting for May to shuffle in. He’d heard her moving around earlier, the muffled cough through the wall, the soft shuffle of her slippers on the old linoleum.

 

When she finally appeared, she leaned against the doorway. Her hair was pulled back hastily, her sweater slipping off one shoulder. She smiled at him anyway - because she always did - but it was thinner than usual, stretched just enough to hide whatever was tugging at the edges.

 

“You’re still up,” she said, voice soft.

 

Peter shrugged, pushing the glass around in a little circle. “Couldn’t sleep.” May padded over and lowered herself carefully into the chair across from him. The overhead light was dim, but it still seemed to make her squint. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Headache again?” he asked, quietly.

 

“Mm,” she hummed, brushing it off. “Migraine. Those fluorescents at work, you know how they are. It’s nothing new.”

 

Peter studied her across the table. The slope of her shoulders seemed wrong. Too heavy. Her skin looked pale under the yellow kitchen light, a little clammy. He noticed she hadn’t touched the leftovers sitting out from earlier, just picked half-heartedly at a piece of bread before setting it aside.

 

“You didn’t eat,” he said.

 

“I’m not really hungry.”

 

She said it so simply, so final, as if it were the easiest thing in the world to go without.

 

“But you didn’t eat yesterday either,” Peter said, the words slipping out sharper than he meant them to. He winced at himself, tried to soften. “I mean - you barely touched anything. Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

May gave him that same smile, the kind that curved only on one side and never reached her eyes. “Just tired, honey.”

 

Peter’s stomach tightened. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to tell himself she was right, that it really was just exhaustion, that all she needed was a couple days off and some real sleep. 

 

But May had always been the one making sure he ate, insisting on breakfast before school, shoving snacks into his backpack no matter how much he complained. To see her pushing food away made something cold curl in his chest.

 

“You should go to a doctor,” he said. It came out more like a plea than advice.

 

May’s smile tilted into something rueful, almost amused. “You know we can’t afford that.”

 

Peter dropped his eyes to the table. The chipped laminate blurred for a second before his vision cleared. He hated that she was right. He hated how easily she said it, like she’d already accepted it.

 

Still, the unease stayed. It crawled under his skin, made the back of his throat taste bitter. He told himself it was probably just stress. She’d been working so many shifts, barely taking breaks, coming home later and later with dark circles under her eyes. It made sense she’d be worn down. It made sense she’d lose her appetite if she was exhausted. People got run down. People got sick.

 

But something was wrong. He thought, with sudden, unshakable clarity, that she smelled wrong. Not like soap and laundry and the faint sweetness of her perfume, but something heavier, chemical, like metal under the skin. He thought of the times he’d heard her in the bathroom late at night, the sound of running water, of her coughing low into the sink.

 

Stress, he told himself. Stress and migraines. That was all.

 

But the bad feeling didn’t go away.

  

—

 

Peter was distracted the entire day. 

 

His mind kept skipping across the surface of conversations without actually catching on to any of them. Teachers called on him and he blinked blankly, staring down at a problem set that looked more like scrambled letters than equations. The edges of his notebooks filled with scrawled formulas that led nowhere, messy sketches of molecules he already knew, little spirals drawn tight and darker each time his pen circled back over them. His stomach twisted whenever his thoughts strayed homeward - back to the kitchen, to the sharp fluorescent light catching the fine lines in May’s face, to the way her smile had pulled too tight at the corners.

 

He hated leaving her alone in the apartment, hated thinking about her sitting by herself in that quiet space, probably still too nauseous to eat. It was easier to imagine her tired, maybe stressed, maybe with one of those migraines she’d brushed off. It was easier to pretend than to think about the fact that he could smell the wrongness sometimes, faint and sour in the air, something his body recognized before his brain caught up. 

 

He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to remember lying awake hearing the bathroom door click shut in the middle of the night, the muffled sound of her trying to be quiet while she threw up.

 

So when the final bell rang, Peter didn’t feel the usual pull to get home fast. He lingered at his locker, shoving his books in slow, one at a time. Ned had already left early for decathlon, MJ had her after-school thing, and suddenly Peter was looking around and realizing he didn’t want to walk back to an empty apartment at all. The thought made his chest tight.

 

“Hey,” he blurted, turning toward Flash - who was fiddling with his phone, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. “You, uh - you wanna do another study session? I’ve got some physics stuff to finish up and…” He trailed off.

 

Flash gave him a slow side-eye. “Today?”

 

Peter shrugged, tried for casual. “Yeah, well. Maybe I wanna make sure you don’t tank the next test.”

 

Flash pocketed his phone with a little sigh that felt way too practiced. “Sure. Whatever. My place?”

 

Relief settled into Peter’s shoulders in a way that almost made him sag. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

 

—

 

It started to become a weekly thing. At first Peter worried he was overstaying, worried Flash would eventually make some excuse and tell him to find someone else to pester. But Flash never did. He would just give him a funny look, like maybe he could tell Peter was asking for reasons that had nothing to do with physics - but then he would shrug, pulling his backpack up higher on one shoulder. “Yeah, sure.”

 

He grumbled, sure, acted put-upon about it, but he always said yes, and Peter always found himself saying yes back, even when homework was piling or patrols were waiting. And just like that, Peter had something to hang onto.  The extra cash was good too, even if it was only a day or two a week. 

 

It became a weekly thing. Sometimes more than once a week, if Flash texted him about an assignment he hadn’t touched or Peter made up an excuse to come by.

 

Sometimes Flash’s parents were home, and that was its own kind of strangeness. Peter never knew what to do with himself when they were. The Thompson house was large, the kind of place that echoed when you stepped inside. Polished wood floors, glass tables, art hanging on the walls that Peter couldn’t even guess the price of. They were intimidating, both of them, with the kind of polished confidence Peter associated with people who never had to worry about bills or secondhand clothes. 

 

Flash’s dad usually only poked his head in, gave Peter a distracted nod before disappearing into his office. But Mrs. Thompson was a different story.

 

She was tall, sharp-eyed, the kind of woman who dressed like she was always halfway to a meeting. She’d stand in the doorway, surveying the two of them at the kitchen table - because they didn’t sit on the floor when she was there. Flash would sit straighter, too.

 

Her eyes dragged down Peter’s shirt - the one with the stretched collar and the sleeves that had gone uneven in the wash - and Peter felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with spandex suits or secret identities. It was like she could see exactly how little he fit here. The first time Peter had walked in wearing his baggy, too-old shirt and jeans that didn’t quite fit right at the ankles, she had looked him up and down like she was scanning for weaknesses. It made him want to shrink into himself, to tug at his sleeves and apologize for existing. He had felt like an alleycat sneaking into their house. Not welcome, but not worth the trouble of chasing away, either.

 

And the worst part was, she didn’t even say anything. She didn’t need to. The silence was enough, paired with the faintly raised eyebrow, the way she glanced at Flash like he’d dragged in some stray to feed scraps to. But she still didn’t say anything - not cruel, not mocking - just gave Flash a look that Peter couldn’t interpret. And Flash had scowled back at her, muttered something about “study session, Mom,” and her attention had slid off him.

 

Then she’d hum to herself and move on, leaving Peter sitting stiff in his chair, cheeks hot as he bent over the textbook - and that was enough to leave him shifting uncomfortably on their nice couch, picking at his homework with exaggerated concentration until she disappeared into another room.

 

He told himself not to care. She hadn’t actually said anything mean. And yet he couldn’t stop his brain from chewing on it later, couldn’t stop that sting in his chest when he thought about how easily people like her could make someone like him feel small.

 

Mr. Thompson, on the other hand, was quieter, almost ghostlike in comparison. Sometimes Peter wouldn’t even realize he was home until he emerged from his office or the kitchen, murmured something to Flash about dinner, and vanished again. Intimidating in a different way - less sharp, more… towering, maybe. Like he could crush you without realizing it. Peter made sure to keep his head down and his voice polite.

 

Most of the time, though, the house was empty. And Peter thought maybe Flash timed it like that on purpose, because whenever they walked into the living room, Flash’s shoulders would go tight, and he’d edge a little further away from Peter, like there was someone invisible watching. Peter didn’t push. Flash always got weirdly stiff the moment they stepped into the quiet place, always nudged them both a little further apart on the couch or at the table, like there might be eyes watching even when there weren’t. Peter didn’t comment, but he noticed.

 

The excuse Flash had given his parents was that he was tutoring Peter for extra credit. Peter had laughed out loud at that one before he could stop himself. Flash had glared at him.

 

“Dude.”

 

“Sorry,” Peter had grinned, though the laugh kept bubbling up. “It’s just - you? Tutoring me? That’s funny.”

 

“I’m not that bad at physics,” Flash had muttered, sulking, and Peter had lost it completely.

 

“Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you thought we were supposed to divide by negative time last week.”

 

Flash’s scowl deepened. “Shut up. It’s not - whatever. I had to say something.”

 

“Extra credit,” Peter repeated, still laughing, the words tasting so ridiculous in his mouth.

 

“Dude,” Flash warned, shoving at Peter’s shoulder with his elbow.

 

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Peter said, but he couldn’t stop giggling, burying his face in his sleeve like that might hide it.

 

Flash huffed, shaking his head. “I’m not even that bad at physics,” he grumbled, which only made Peter laugh harder.

 

Peter wheezed, pressing a hand to his face. “Sure. Okay. Whatever you say, Mr. Extra Credit.”

 

“Dude!” Flash shoved him harder, elbow digging into his ribs.

 

Peter shoved back on instinct, and for a moment, the heaviness in Peter’s chest lifted. For a moment, it felt almost easy to breathe.

 

—

 

Peter hadn’t really meant for it to become a routine. At first it had just been that one night when the thought of going home to silence and worry had been unbearable, when the weight of May’s tired smile and her hollow cheeks had chased him through the day until the idea of walking into their apartment again had felt like dragging himself into a tomb. He’d asked Flash almost on impulse if he wanted to study again, half-expecting to be laughed off, but Flash had only shrugged and said yeah, sure, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

And then it had just… kept happening.

 

Somehow once a week turned into twice, and twice into three times if the homework piled up or if Peter looked ragged enough for Flash to sigh and shove his bag at him with a muttered “Fine, c’mon. Let’s go.”

 

It wasn’t what Peter expected. He’d thought maybe Flash would gloat, or treat it like a punishment, or hold the money over his head. But instead Flash just sort of… let him in. A little awkward at first, like Flash didn’t quite know what to do with him once he’d been brought into the house. And Peter, who didn’t really know what to do with Flash either, followed his lead. His parents were still there sometimes - but most of the time, though, the house was empty. 

 

And those were the nights that became his favorites.

 

It always went the same way - books scattered across the living room table, Flash sprawled in his hoodie and socks, grumbling his way through physics equations while Peter tried to explain how momentum worked for the third time. Sometimes Flash got it right away, quicker than Peter expected, and then puffed up. Sometimes they really did study, heads bent close over Flash’s messy handwriting, Peter trying to explain the same concept three different ways until it clicked. Sometimes they gave up and watched movies instead, homework shoved into backpacks until later.  

 

The homework never actually took the whole night. Even when it was supposed to.

 

Eventually the books would be shoved aside, and Flash would flip on the TV, scrolling through movies with one hand while the other dug his phone out to order pizza. He never asked what Peter wanted - just ordered his usual, and one for Peter too. The first time Peter tried to insist on paying, Flash had rolled his eyes and muttered, “Don’t be an idiot. I got money to blow. It’s fine.”

 

So Peter let him.

 

And that was how they got here.

 

Peter was full for once, comfortably heavy, and the warmth of it pulled at his eyelids. He was stretched on Flash’s couch, half-slumped, knees brushing Flash’s despite the fact that the couch was big enough for them to sit apart. He didn’t bother moving. It felt… nice.

 

He didn’t mean to. He never meant to. But something about a warm house, food in his stomach, and the quiet of a living room where he didn’t have to be alert all the time made his body betray him. He would sink down into the couch cushions, heavy and warm, eyelids dragging lower and lower until his head lolled against the back of the sofa and the movie blurred into background noise. Like a cat curling into a sunbeam. Like a spider settling into its web after a long hunt.

 

It was mortifying the first time he noticed Flash watching him with raised brows.

 

“Dude,” Flash said, poking him in the arm. “You’re gonna fall asleep.”

 

Peter blinked blearily, dragging his eyes open. “…No, I’m not.” His voice came out muffled, almost slurred with how comfortable he was. He shifted, tried to sit straighter, failed, and melted back down again. “Your couch is… comfortable.”

 

Flash gave him a flat look that didn’t hide the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “You can crash here next time if you want, but I’m not carrying your skinny ass to the car. Not happening.”

 

Peter groaned, dragging a hand over his face. He was so warm. Too warm to argue. “…Fine. Then I’ll just… sleep here.”

 

“Not what I said.” Flash poked him again, firmer this time. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift if you want, but you gotta actually walk to the car, dumbass.”

 

Peter cracked one eye open, squinting up at him. “I’m not a dumbass. I’m tutoring you, in case you forgot.”

 

That earned him a sharp snort, followed by Flash’s elbow nudging his side. “Yeah, yeah. Still doesn’t change the fact that you look like you’re about to drool on my couch.”

 

“I don’t drool,” Peter muttered automatically.

 

“Sure you don’t,” Flash said dryly.

 

Peter let his eyes fall shut again, too tired to fight the warmth pressing him down into the cushions. Their knees were touching, he realized distantly. The couch was big enough that they didn’t have to, that there was plenty of space to spread out, but neither of them had moved. It was easier not to think about it, to let the contact settle like background noise.

 

“I’m not a dumbass,” Peter muttered again, because he was tired and a little petty.  

 

Flash rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I’ll never forget. Now get in the car, Einstein.”

 

Peter jerked like he’d been shocked, nearly smashing his knee into Flash’s face as he sat bolt upright. The world tilted. Einstein. Hands, a weight pinning him down. The voice, low and certain: you asked for this.

 

Peter’s chest squeezed tight. His skin went cold. He sat up straighter, every nerve wide awake, eyes too sharp on the room.

 

“Uh-” Flash blinked at him. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter croaked. His voice sounded wrong. Too rough. He forced a swallow. “Um. Sorry. I’m awake now.”

 

Flash watched him for a beat, something cautious in his expression. But then he just shrugged, awkward, like he didn’t know what to do with it. “You still need that ride?”

 

Peter hesitated. “…Yeah,” he said finally. His mouth was dry. “Sorry. Yes, please.”

 

—

 

The car ride was quiet. Too quiet.

 

Peter sat rigid in the passenger seat, every muscle tense, his hands clamped together in his lap to stop the restless twitch. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal. His heart wouldn’t settle, still fluttering high in his chest, but he kept his face angled toward the window.

 

Flash pulled up in front of his apartment, braking gently. Peter fumbled with the seatbelt. “Hey,” Flash said suddenly, and his voice was hesitant. “You… okay?”

 

Peter forced a smile, brittle at the edges. “Yeah. Totally fine. Thanks for the ride. I’ll, uh - I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

He reached for the door handle.

 

But then Flash’s hand brushed his, catching him off guard, warm and solid against his fingers. Peter froze instantly, his whole body spasming as he tore out of the grip. Flash flinched like he’d burned himself, pulling back quick. “Sorry. I just-” He dug into his pocket, fumbling with his wallet. “I forgot to pay you. For the tutoring. I’ve got cash.”

 

Peter shook his head fast, throat tight. “Don’t worry about it. You bought dinner, and we didn’t even study that much, so - seriously, don’t worry about it.”

 

His hand was already on the door, desperate for air. 

 

“Thanks again,” he said, and then he shut the door before Flash could answer.

 

The car idled for a moment as he hurried up the steps. He didn’t look back until he was inside, and by then, the taillights had already disappeared down the street.

 

The door clicked shut behind him, and the apartment swallowed the sound whole.

 

For a moment, Peter just stood there, back pressed flat against the door, palms damp where they stuck to the wood. The silence rang in his ears. It was too quiet;  the kind of quiet that wasn’t really quiet at all, because it gave space for every thought, every sound his body still carried, to echo back at him. His heart was still beating too fast, and in the hush of the apartment, it sounded too loud - like it was trying to crawl its way out of his chest.

 

He forced in a breath. Held it. Let it out slow. His ribs ached from how tight he’d been holding himself together in Flash’s car.

 

The air smelled faintly of detergent, the lemony kind May used for laundry. Clean, ordinary. Safe.

 

Safe.

 

He repeated the word to himself. He was home. Nobody else here except May, and she was asleep - the faintest creak of her bedroom door down the hall, the heavy hush of her old box fan were the only signs of life. No voices. No weight pinning him down. No one calling him Einstein. No hands or pictures or-

 

Still, his knees trembled as he kicked off his shoes, and he barely had the energy to line them up. He kept his head ducked as if someone might still be watching, shoulders tight until he finally made it into his room and shut the door.

 

The bed sagged under him when he dropped onto it. His body felt wrong like every muscle wired and twitching, even though he was so, so tired. He curled up automatically, pulling his knees close, pressing his fists against his chest.

 

The ceiling loomed above him, pale and blank in the streetlight glow leaking through the curtains. He stared at it, wide-eyed, his thoughts looping and colliding like they were running laps in his skull.

 

Einstein.

 

It should’ve been nothing. Just a dumb name. Flash had said it half-teasing, half-compliment, not even mean. 

 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. The sound had been too sharp, too close. Not Flash’s voice anymore, not the car, but a different tone entirely. A deeper voice. He could still feel the phantom press of hands pinning him down, the weight that hadn’t been there. The certainty in the words: you asked for this.

 

His breath hitched. He dug his fingernails into his palms.

 

Safe, he reminded himself again, but the word didn’t carry the same weight now. His apartment walls were thin. His bed was too soft. His skin still buzzed, too sensitive, like it was braced for touch that wasn’t coming.

 

He turned over and curled tighter, hiding his face against the pillow and tried not to dream of hands. It smelled like fabric softener and a little like him, that faint mix of sweat and soap. Normal. He tried to bury himself in that, to block everything else out.

 

Don’t think. Don’t dream. Don’t move.

 

Just breathe.

 

And if his eyes burned and blurred a little, at least there was no one else here to see.

 

—

 

Peter dreamed in fragments.

 

It wasn’t a story, wasn’t even a memory, not the way normal people dreamed. It came in jagged pieces, like photographs torn apart and shuffled until nothing fit. 

 

Hands. Too many of them.

 

They weren’t attached to anything; just fingers and palms and knuckles moving in flashes, grabbing, clutching, pressing. Some of them were soft. Some were heavy, rough, bruising. He felt them on his arms, on his chest, sliding under his ribs, tightening at his throat.

 

Hold still, Einstein.

 

The word split through the dark like glass breaking, and he jolted inside the dream, but his body couldn’t move. His chest constricted with invisible weight, his lungs dragging in air that burned on the way down. He tried to twist free, but every movement pulled more hands onto him, more grip and more pressure until it felt like he was being pressed into the mattress, buried under skin that wasn’t his.

 

Hands. Flash’s knees brushing his, a hand circling around his wrist. Peter jerking back, flinching. Not the same, not the same, not the same, but his body hadn’t believed him. He made a sound in the dream, the kind that caught in his throat and scraped out anyway. He couldn’t tell if it was a groan or a sob.

 

The hands found him again. Fingers catching the collar of his shirt, wrenching him backward. Nails scraping the back of his neck. A palm forcing his jaw up until his teeth ached.

 

Good boy.

 

No, no, no- 

 

his body lurched, muscles straining, but the dream refused him any release. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. His chest heaved with air that felt stolen. It blurred again. He was outside, maybe. Cold on his skin, cold so sharp it cut through the sweat. His stomach cramped. He doubled over in the dream, coughing, spitting, gagging.

 

He tried to stand. His legs wouldn’t work. Tried to crawl, but the floor pulled him down, sticky, heavy, clinging like tar. Hands again, always hands. They dragged him back, pressed him flat, kept him from breathing.

 

Einstein.

 

The word snapped him awake.

 

Peter shot upright in bed, his chest heaving, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin. The air felt too thin, too sharp. His sheets were tangled tight around his legs, damp and suffocating. His throat burned, like he’d been choking in his sleep.

 

It took him a second to figure out where he was. His eyes caught the shadowed shape of his desk, the faint glow of his alarm clock - 1:47 a.m - the single crack of streetlight bleeding through the blinds.

 

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. Still there. Still him.

 

But the ghost of it wouldn’t leave. The pressure, the voices, the burning shame that sat heavy in his gut. He rubbed his palms against the sheets like he could scrub them clean of invisible fingerprints, of money that wasn’t there. His stomach cramped, hollow and furious. Hunger gnawed at him, sharper in the quiet than it ever felt during the day.  

 

He closed his eyes, but the fragments of the dream still flickered behind them. The hands, the voices. His chest ached. His head throbbed. He knew he wasn’t going back to sleep.

 

Peter dragged the heel of his palm over his eyes and stared at the ceiling, the cracks in the paint. He told himself he’d get up for school in a couple hours like it was nothing. Pretend he was fine. Pretend that none of it happened - none of it mattered. But his body wouldn’t stop shaking. And his stomach wouldn’t stop aching.

 

Peter couldn’t sleep after that. He tried.

 

After twenty minutes of stewing, he crawled out of bed and pulled on the mask. If he couldn’t sleep, he was going to be useful.

 

He’d been tracking a string of burner phones for weeks, running down the breadcrumbs through alley pickups, whispered exchanges, numbers that disappeared within hours of being activated. It led him here - to the guy who was moving product. People. A seller. A leech. The kind of man who made his skin crawl before Peter even saw his face.

 

Breaking into the guy’s apartment wasn’t hard. Rusted fire escape, half-open window, sloppy locks that practically begged him to slip inside. The place smelled like smoke and grease and something sour - dirty dishes piled on every surface, a thin film of grime over the counters. He padded past the mess, zeroing in on the muffled TV light bleeding from the back room.

 

When the man finally looked up from his couch, it was already too late.

 

Peter slammed him back against the wall hard enough that the picture frames rattled. His fist was already cocked back, the man choking out a startled curse before the first punch landed. Bone crunched under his knuckles. Blood sprayed his mask.

 

“You sell kids,” Peter hissed, voice ragged through his filter. He didn’t bother with witty lines, didn’t bother with the usual restraint. He let himself hit a little harder than usual - just to scare him, he told himself thinly, just to get him to cooperate - his fists came down again and the man yelped, clawing uselessly against the wall, fumbling for something at his hip-

 

The gun went off at point-blank range.

 

Pain seared across Peter’s stomach, white-hot, biting. He staggered back a half step, hissing through his teeth, his hand flying to press the wound. His breath stuttered. His heart skipped.

 

Adrenaline. He gritted his jaw, forcing his body to steady.

 

Karen’s voice chimed soft in his ear, almost apologetic. “Gunshot wound detected. I recommend contacting Mr. Stark.”

 

“No,” Peter rasped, dragging the man off his feet and slamming him into the ground.  

 

“I’m sorry, Peter. Vital signs indicate-”

 

Peter ignored her. He hauled the man upright by his collar and slammed his knee into his ribs. “Who are you running these people to?”  His voice cracked into a snarl. “Where are they going?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the man wheezed, blood spattering his chin.

 

Peter’s fist slammed into his jaw hard enough to rattle teeth loose. He shook out his knuckles, his stomach throbbing with each movement.

 

“You do. ” Another punch. His voice sounded raw in his own ears. “Don’t waste my time.”

 

The guy’s eyes darted to the window, to the door, to get away. Peter followed his gaze, and his temper snapped. He twisted the man’s arm up behind his back, shoved him face-first into the carpet, and pressed down hard.

 

“I’ll break it,” Peter warned flatly.

 

“You wouldn’t-”

 

The sharp pop of bone leaving its socket filled the air.

 

The man screamed.

 

Peter’s lip curled beneath the mask. He shoved the arm higher, pinning him like a bug on a board. “Where’s the drop point?”

 

“Okay! Okay! Midtown!” he sobbed. “They run ‘em outta Midtown, warehouse on Twenty-Fourth! I swear to God, I don’t know more than that-”

 

Peter yanked him back and webbed him to the floor, securing him in a position that left his ruined shoulder wrenched awkwardly, pain carved into every angle. “Then you can wait for the cops like that.”

 

He turned away, hand clamped to his stomach, bile in his throat. The man’s whimpers trailed him out the window. 

 

The city air was cold and damp against the heat of his wound. His legs felt unsteady on the ledge, but he kept going, firing a web and hauling himself into the night.

 

Wow, he thought blearily. His stomach really hurt. 

 

His comm buzzed before he even hit the next rooftop.

 

“Kid?” Tony’s voice was a little tight in a way Peter wasn’t used to hearing. “Peter, answer me. Karen flagged a gunshot. Where are you?”

 

Peter grit his teeth, crouched low on the rooftop, and pressed harder into his gut. His fingers came away sticky and hot. “It’s-” he started dumbly, words trailing off as he glanced down at the tacky liquid. “It’s… fine. I think.”

“You’re shot, ” Tony snapped. “That’s the opposite of fine. Where the hell are you?”

 

Peter swallowed hard, vision swimming. The skyline tilted slightly around him, but he forced himself to straighten, one shaky step at a time. Wow. Okay. That adrenaline crash was starting to suck.

 

“On my way to the Tower,” he said unthinkingly, but it was probably a good idea. He didn’t want to go home and deal with this. He didn’t want to pull another bullet out with shitty tweezers and shaky hands and-

 

“Stay put. I’ll come get you-”

 

“No.” His tone cracked, harsher than he meant. “I don’t need - just… don’t. I’ll get there.”

 

“Peter-”

 

He ended the call and Tony’s voice cut off as Peter swung off the rooftop. Every arc pulled at his stomach, fire streaking under his ribs, but the rush of air on his face drowned it out, just enough. The city blurred around him, smeared neon and shadow, the wind in his ears a low roar.

 

All he had to do was keep moving.

 

Peter didn’t remember half the trip to the Tower. His head was swimming and the buzz of adrenaline was already burning itself out, and every twist or leap sent a spear of pain through his gut that made his breath catch. He pressed harder against the wound, sticky warmth seeping between his fingers, ignoring the way his legs threatened to buckle each time he landed.

 

Tony just forced another call through. “Kid - Jesus Christ, answer me!”  

 

“It’s fine,” Peter said numbly. He wasn’t fine. His abdomen screamed every time he bent, every time his body tried to coil for another swing. “It’s just… a scratch.”

 

“Scratch my ass,” Tony snapped back. “Karen flagged it as a penetrating gunshot wound. Do you even listen to yourself? Why do you think I give you a damn tracker? Why isn’t it working?”

 

Peter clenched his jaw and didn’t respond. His grip slipped a little on the line as his stomach lurched. The suit adjusted, stabilizing his swing automatically. He thought he might throw up inside the mask, but the Tower loomed ahead, tall and safe, and for a second he let himself imagine he could just reach it without collapsing.

 

The landing on one of the support beams nearly put him on his knees. He staggered, one hand clutching his side, the other bracing against the glass window until it hissed open. The moment he stumbled inside, Tony was there, eyes burning.

 

“Are you kidding me right now? ” Tony’s voice was sharp and panicked, and Peter hated that tone the most because it felt like guilt.

 

Peter barely had time to argue before Tony was already moving him, steering him down the hall. His hand on Peter’s shoulder was firm but shaking.

 

The Medbay was too bright. Cold, white lights stabbed at Peter’s skull as Tony barked for FRIDAY to bring Bruce down. Peter climbed awkwardly onto the bed, his knees weak. His side throbbed like a second heartbeat, each pulse pushing warm wetness beneath his palm.

 

Bruce arrived - still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes - before he looked a little more awake at the situation. “Through-and-through?” Bruce asked, voice low.

 

Tony swore under his breath. “I don’t know. Kid won’t let me check. He just clutches himself like he’s holding his intestines in.”

 

“It’s fine,” Peter muttered again, but the words came out strangled.

 

Bruce’s hand touched his hip, gently, guiding him to lie back. The touch made Peter’s entire body jolt. His breath caught, and he flinched so hard the mattress squeaked. “Easy,” Bruce said immediately, pulling back an inch. “I’m just checking the entry point.”

 

Peter forced himself to relax but couldn’t stop the way his muscles clenched beneath the suit. He hated it. He hated the way it felt, hated the hands on his waist, too close, too strong. He squeezed his eyes shut behind the mask, willing his body not to tremble.

 

Tony hovered at the edge of the bed. “You couldn’t just - just call me? Just once? Instead, you run off solo, get shot, and act like you’re invincible - what the hell is wrong with you, kid?”

 

Peter bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. He didn’t answer.

 

“Clean exit,” Bruce said after a beat. “He’s lucky. No organ damage. I’ll stitch him up, and he’ll need to rest.”

 

“Rest,” Tony repeated bitterly.

 

Then they were peeling the skin back and Peter squeezed his eyes shut again and held onto the bedframe a little tighter. A needle bit into Peter’s skin, a sharp sting that made him jerk before he forced himself still. His mask stayed on, and he was glad for it.  

 

Tony kept talking. He always did when he was scared. “Do you even get how close this was? You could’ve bled out in some alleyway, and nobody would’ve found you. You’re fifteen-”

 

“Sixteen,” Peter croaked.

 

“-do not even correct me right now,” Tony snapped, spinning on his heel. “Sixteen, fifteen, whatever - you’re still a kid! And you think I’m just gonna sit around while you play Punisher with mob bosses who have guns?”

 

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. If he said he was fine, Tony would yell more. If he admitted he wasn’t, Tony would look at him with that crushed expression that made Peter want to crawl out of his own skin. The stitches tugged. “Almost done, Peter. Just a few more.”

 

Tony ran both hands through his hair, muttering under his breath, half to himself. “Why do I even bother upgrading the suit if you’re gonna-”

 

“Because it works,” Peter whispered. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, thin and quiet. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

Tony froze. His eyes burned holes into Peter, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Bruce tied off the last stitch, covered the wound, and stepped back. “There. He’s stable. No lifting, no patrols, no bending, no nothing. He needs rest.”

 

“Got it,” Tony said, sharp. Then he turned back to Peter. “You’re staying here tonight. End of discussion.”

 

Peter’s stomach tightened. The thought of staying made his chest seize. He needed to be home with May. He needed to see the containers of food waiting in the fridge. He needed to know they were there.

 

“I’m fine,” he said again, pushing himself slowly upright. The movement hurt like hell, but he bit down on it. “I’ll go home.”

 

“Not happening,” Tony shot back.

 

But Bruce cut in quietly. “Medically speaking, he’s stable enough to leave if he wants. I’d prefer he didn’t, but… he’ll be okay.”

 

Peter seized on it instantly. “See? Okay. Thanks, Dr. Banner.” He slid off the bed before Tony could block him. His legs shook, but he steadied them.

 

“Peter-”

 

“Not out the window-!” Bruce started, horrified.

 

“Thanks,” Peter said again, and then he moved. He didn’t look back. By the time Tony’s voice rose again, sharp with protest, Peter was already crawling out the window.

 

—

 

He slipped through his bedroom window, peeled the mask off, and leaned against the sill for a second. The faint sound of May moving in the kitchen carried over, and he slipped inside, heart still beating like he’d done something wrong.

 

“Peter?” May’s voice was careful, soft. She always spoke like that these days, like he was a skittish animal that might bolt if she raised her tone.

 

“Yeah, it’s me,” he called back, already tugging off the suit and slipping a hoodie over the fresh bandages. He padded down the hallway, and each step tugged at the bandages beneath his hoodie. Bruce’s stitching was precise, but it still burned each time his abdominal muscles twitched or his side stretched too far. 

 

The faint clatter of a mug being set down on the counter reached him before he turned the corner into the kitchen. 

 

She was standing at the counter in her robe, a thin sweater pulled over it against the late chill of the apartment. Her hair was loose and rumpled, glasses sliding down her nose. The light over the sink turned her skin pale, almost fragile. She looked tired.

 

“You’re up late,” she said. Her hands wrapped around the mug of tea, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased. She gave him a small smile. 

 

There was silence for a moment, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator, and he thought maybe she would press - she used to press - but instead she sighed and looked back at her tea. The sound made his chest ache. He wasn’t sure which was worse: her asking questions he couldn’t answer, or her stopping altogether.

 

“You hungry?” she asked softly, after a beat.

 

He shook his head. The lie slid out of him smoothly. “I ate earlier.”

 

May hummed. She set her mug down, then moved to the fridge, pulling out a plate covered in plastic wrap. She slid it into the microwave without a word. 

 

“May, really, I’m-”

 

“You’ll eat,” she said, not looking at him. Her tone was still gentle, but it brooked no argument. “Just a little. You need it. You’re too skinny these days. Where’d all that cute baby fat go?”

 

His throat closed up.  

 

When the timer beeped, she set the plate down in front of him. Pasta. Peter’s stomach turned. The stitches in his side pulled and throbbed. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t. But May was standing there, watching with those tired eyes, and it felt like an obligation heavier than anything else.

 

So he picked up the fork. Forced a bite into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. The food sat heavy and foreign in his stomach. He chased it with another bite, then another, until the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly.

 

“There,” she said softly, almost to herself. “That’s better.”

 

He nodded, throat too tight for words.

 

Peter pushed the rest of the pasta around the plate until the steam had faded and the noodles clumped together. His eyelids felt heavy, and he wanted - desperately - to say something that would fix it. Something to smooth the crease in her forehead, but the words caught in his throat like barbed wire.

 

Finally, she stood. Collected his plate. Brushed a hand lightly over his hair as she passed, the touch warm and soft. “Get some sleep, baby.”

 

He nodded, watching her retreat to her room, robe trailing faintly at her ankles.

 

When the apartment was quiet again, Peter slumped forward, pressing his palms into his eyes. The ache in his side flared, and he thought of the man webbed up in that dingy apartment, arm dislocated, waiting for the cops. He thought of Tony’s voice and he thought of Bruce’s hands, gentle but firm, pressing into the wound.  

 

He felt sick. Sick and tired and hollow.

 

Finally, he dragged himself upright, stumbling into his room. He crawled into bed with his hoodie still on, pulling the blanket up tight around his shoulders, and he clung to that small comfort as his body shuddered once, twice, before exhaustion finally pulled him under.

 

—

 

Peter shook his head and very deliberately focused on unwrapping his juice box. He could feel Flash staring at him from across the cafeteria - but he kept his eyes on the table. If he didn’t react, maybe Flash would get bored and move on to someone else.

 

Except… he didn’t. That hadn’t worked so far, and he wasn’t surprised it hadn’t worked now.

 

By the time lunch ended, Peter had counted at least four separate times he’d caught Flash still looking at him, and each time he’d forced himself to look away before their eyes could meet. The effort was starting to make his shoulders ache.

 

The rest of the day wasn’t much better. Flash didn’t call out to him in the hallway - thank god - but Peter could feel him whenever they passed each other between classes. He kept his head down, ducked into crowds when he could, and made a point of finding completely unnecessary detours just to avoid walking the same route.

 

By the time the bell rang, Peter was so keyed up from the avoidance game that when Flash finally managed to catch his arm just outside the science wing, his whole body jerked like he’d been shocked.

 

“Parker,” Flash said, voice low, like this was meant to be some kind of private, serious moment. “I want to talk to you.”

 

“Not interested,” he muttered as his face burned, stepping away before Flash could get another word in. His feet carried him down the hall fast enough to make it clear the conversation was over before it had even started.

 

He thought maybe that would be it.

 

It wasn’t.

 

Second-to-last period, their teacher announced a new group project. Peter’s stomach sank the moment the seating chart shuffled and he found himself staring across the desk at Flash - of course it was Flash, why wouldn’t it be Flash - who was looking stupidly smug.

 

Flash leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and grinned. “Well,” he said, smug and certain, “now you have to talk to me.”

 

Peter put his head on the desk, and willed the day to be over.

 

—

 

Peter hadn’t even wanted Flash to drive. 

 

He’d tried to argue his way into another group, but there was nowhere to go, no plausible excuse that didn’t sound suspicious. And really - it wasn’t even Flash’s fault that Peter had been a freak the day before and snapped straight at a dumb nickname, but now that Flash had seen it Peter knew he was going to ask, and Peter really, really didn’t want him to ask.

 

So, twenty minutes later, Peter found himself slouched in the passenger seat of Flash’s obnoxiously shiny car, wishing nothing more than to get this stupid group project out of the way a week early.

 

He planted his sneakers firmly up on the dashboard - not because it was comfortable, but because it was annoying, and that was enough. Flash’s reaction was immediate, which made it better.

 

“Dude - seriously?!” Flash barked, one hand swatting at Peter’s legs without taking his eyes off the road. “Get your disgusting shoes off my dash.”

 

“They’re not disgusting,” Peter said, leaning back harder in the seat. “You could eat off the bottom of these shoes. They’re that clean.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Flash muttered, still shoving at his knees. “You’re gonna get your freak foot grease all over my car.”

 

“I’m not a freak,” Peter said blandly, pushing his legs back up the second Flash got them down.

 

That earned him a glare. “Don’t make me pull over and dump you on the sidewalk.”

 

Peter grinned to himself, staring out the window. The argument wasn’t even fun - it was just noise to fill the awkward air so he didn’t have to think about why Flash had insisted on coming over to his for once instead of the other way around. Maybe his parents were back. Either way, Peter didn’t care. He just wanted to make Flash regret being so smug about it all.

 

They bickered the whole way - about the radio station, about Peter touching the AC controls, about whether the speed limit was a suggestion (it wasn’t), and at one point Flash accusing him of humming too loud. By the time they reached Peter’s building, Peter was almost in a better mood. Almost.

 

He hopped out before Flash could make some dumb, sarcastic comment about his apartment complex, unlocking the front door with his shoulder against the peeling paint. By the time they’d gotten up to his floor he’d remembered that May wasn’t home - she was working a double, which meant the place was quiet and the faint smell of leftover takeout hung in the air.

 

Flash trailed in after him, eyes darting around in that nosy way Peter remembered from middle school.

 

And of course, Flash made a beeline for the fridge the second they passed the kitchen. Peter knew it was coming before it happened - Flash’s gaze locking onto the row of overdue bills magneted to the fridge door. Electricity, water, rent - all in the past due column, bright red print impossible to miss.

 

Peter swallowed down a flicker of embarrassment, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket before he just past him, heading for his room, but the universe wasn’t done punishing him.

 

Because the second they stepped into his room, Flash stopped dead.

 

Peter didn’t have time to hide anything. He hadn’t exactly expected company - especially not the kind of company who would immediately start scanning the place. His desk and bed still had all the medical supplies from the night before - rolls of gauze, antiseptic spray, ice packs thawed into limp puddles in the trash. And on top of that, sitting innocently on the desk like it wasn’t about to ruin his life, was the cheap little burner phones he’d stolen from the criminals.

 

Peter saw the exact second Flash’s brain started connecting dots that weren’t even in the same book, let alone the same page. His eyes flicked from the gauze to the burner phone, then back to Peter.

 

Peter’s stomach dropped. “It’s not-”

 

“Sure,” Flash interrupted, but he didn’t sound as smug as before.

 

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face and swept everything off the desk in one motion, shoving it into the nearest drawer. “We’re doing the project,” he muttered, because maybe if they just sat down and focused on that, Flash wouldn’t ask any more questions.

 

They ended up working on the bed, both hunched over Peter’s battered laptop. Flash kept glancing at him like he was waiting for Peter to slip up and admit something, but he didn’t say anything else. Which, honestly, was worse than when he did talk.

 

The project limped along in awkward silence.

 

By the time Flash had left and Peter closed the door behind him, he leaned against the wall for a second before going to shove his books into his bag for the next day. That’s when he noticed it - wedged between the pages of his science textbook, a folded bill.

 

He pulled it out. Not one bill. Several.

 

Peter stared at the little wad of crumpled twenties in disbelief. A hundred bucks, easy. His stomach twisted in something halfway between outrage and embarrassment and shame and… something else he didn’t want to name.

 

Peter shoved the cash into the drawer with the medical supplies, face hot, muttering to himself.

 

This was going to be the longest group project of his life.

 

—

 

Peter’s tray clattered onto the nearest empty table, but he didn’t even sit down. The cafeteria was loud - silverware scraping against plastic trays, someone’s laughter breaking sharp across the din, chairs screeching against the tile floor - but Peter didn’t hear any of it clearly. His focus was fixed on the table near the middle of the room.

 

Flash’s table.

 

He marched toward it, threading between clusters of kids with the single-minded determination of someone who knew if he slowed down, if he thought too hard about it, he’d lose his nerve. His hand was clenched tight around the crumpled bills. The paper was slightly damp from his palm.

 

Flash was mid-story - Peter could tell from the way his hands moved, broad sweeps and sharp jabs in the air. His friends were leaning in, some laughing, some rolling their eyes. Flash’s voice carried easily, even over the chatter, though Peter wasn’t listening to the words. He stopped beside the table, every eye in the immediate vicinity turning toward him.

 

Without a word, Peter slammed the bills down in the middle of the table. Flash blinked, halfway through his sentence, looking up in surprise. “Uh-”

 

“I’m not taking your handouts, Flash.” Peter’s voice came out sharper than he’d meant it to, his breath hitching somewhere between the syllables. His fingers stayed curled around the edge of the table, knuckles pale. “Tutoring’s one thing, but I’m not taking cash for doing our assignment.”

 

There was a flicker of confusion on Flash’s face - genuine confusion - before it smoothed into something more guarded. “Take the damn money, Parker.”

 

“No!” The word burst out of him, too loud, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. He lowered his voice, but the tightness in it didn’t ease. “I don’t need your pity or whatever this is supposed to be.”

 

Flash leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His friends were watching, and the air was thick with an awkward tension that seemed to root Peter’s feet in place. “You did most of the work anyway,” Flash said, his tone edging toward frustration. “What would you normally charge? Please tell me you’d at least get a hundred for three hours of-”

 

“Shut up.” Peter hissed the words, leaning forward enough that their faces were inches apart. His stomach flipped violently. “I’m not - stop saying that, someone’s going to overhear.”

 

The air between them seemed to tighten. A couple of Flash’s friends looked away, pretending not to listen. Flash’s mouth twitched, like he was weighing whether to push harder before his expression softened. “Hey, I’m just saying-”

 

“I don’t care what you’re saying. I’m not taking it.” Peter shoved the bills a little closer to him across the table.

 

“...You’re really not gonna take it?” Flash asked, studying him in a way that made Peter feel both defensive and tired all at once.

 

“No.” Peter’s jaw tightened. His fingers twitched at his sides, the muscles in his forearms taut.

 

For a moment, Flash just stared. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out and caught the sleeve of some random kid passing by. The kid stumbled a bit, confused. Flash asked, “Hey, you want a hundred bucks?” 

 

The kid blinked, glancing between them. “Uh… sure?”

 

Flash held the cash out casually, like it was nothing. The kid took it, blinking at him, before he jammed it in his pocked and bolted, disappearing into the crowd before Peter could process what just happened. Peter stared after them, his mouth opening and closing.

 

“That could’ve been yours,” Flash said with a little shrug, like they hadn’t just witnessed daylight robbery in the middle of the cafeteria. “Better take it next time.”

 

Peter’s face went hot. “Fuck you,” he bit out, his pulse thudding in his ears. “What are you - I’m not - what’s the point? Why are you throwing money at me?”

 

“Because I can afford it?” Flash said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, like he was doing Peter some kind of casual favor.

 

Peter barked a humorless laugh. “I liked it better when you were slamming my head into lockers, because at least then you were easier to understand.”

 

Flash’s jaw tightened. “Fuck you too, asshole.”

 

Peter’s mouth curved into a cold, mocking smile. “That’s a new one. What, not happy that I’m telling you what you used to do? Because you did a lot worse than hit me in the head once, Flash.”

 

Something in Flash’s posture shifted, his shoulders squaring, his voice dropping low and sharp. “Careful, Parker.”

 

“Why? You don’t like hearing it? You don’t like being reminded that you were a dick for years?” Peter’s voice was rising now, matching the prickling heat crawling up his neck.

 

Flash’s face was twisted. “I’m trying to do a nice thing! What the fuck’s your problem?”

 

Peter’s laugh came out brittle. “I don’t want to take your pity money!”

 

Flash’s jaw worked, anger flashing in his eyes before his mouth moved faster than his brain. “What, you like sucking dick for money that much?” 

 

“Fuck you,” he hissed, face burning.

 

“I would,” Flash said wryly, lip twisting upward, “but then I’d have to pay you.”  

 

The noise of the cafeteria seemed to dip for a second, just long enough for the words to hang in the air, sharp and ugly, echoing louder than they should have. A couple of heads turned, students blinking over their trays as if they weren’t sure they’d heard right.

 

Peter froze. The words scraped down his spine, tearing open something raw as his stomach dropped out, his chest squeezed tight, and his pulse roared in his ears. The cafeteria blurred at the edges, every set of eyes suddenly too sharp, too heavy.

 

Flash must’ve seen it, because for half a second, guilt flickered in his expression. But it was too late.

 

Peter felt something inside him snap. His breath hitched, his fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. His vision tunneled on Flash’s stupid, angry face, the smirk that wasn’t even there but that Peter saw anyway, overlaid with years of laughter, shoves, whispered names.

 

“You-” Peter’s voice cracked under the weight of it, too loud, too furious.

 

He didn’t finish the sentence before he lunged.

 

His tray clattered to the floor as he shoved Flash backward, the chair screeching across the tile. They hit the ground hard, Peter’s knees pinning him as his fists balled into the fabric of Flash’s shirt.

 

Flash was already fighting back, shoving at his shoulders, his own fists swinging up to block and grab. The sharp burn of adrenaline blurred Peter’s vision, narrowed everything down to the heat of Flash’s grip on his arm, the scrape of his shoes against the tile, the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

 

Somewhere in the background, someone started chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

 

Peter didn’t care. Flash’s hand caught his shoulder, tried to shove him off balance, but Peter leaned into it, shoving back with all the tension and fury that had been simmering for weeks. His pulse was white-hot now, his breathing ragged, and even though a part of him knew this was stupid - was going to end badly - he couldn’t stop.

 

He didn’t care anymore. Fuck this.

 

Notes:

I CAN FIX THEM I SWEAR THIS ISNT ALL JUST TOXIC YAOI

Chapter 6: consequences

Summary:

Flash hadn’t planned on ending up in the principal’s office today. 

Notes:

im cooking. theyre cooked.

also i cannot understate how happy yalls comments make me. like the amount of motivation it gives me is crazy and yall keep feeding me and ily for it <333

Flash hadn’t planned on ending up in the principal’s office today. 

 

Not that he never ended up here - it happened, but usually when he’d been the one to start something. This time it had been Parker, of all people, was the one who’d launched himself across the cafeteria table like some kind of wiry feral animal. And yeah, fine, Flash had been goading him - but really it wasn’t even his fault because he’d been trying to help but Peter was so fucking stupid that he couldn’t accept the help.

 

And today, apparently, was the day Parker finally decided to throw hands.

 

Now they were both sitting in those uncomfortable chairs that weren’t quite comfortable enough to lean back in without hitting the wall. Flash kept his eyes on the opposite wall, because looking at Parker was only going to get his blood pressure up again. Not that he wasn’t aware of him in his peripheral vision - he was sitting stiffly, hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie like he was trying to hold himself together.

 

The principal was leaning over the desk, voice calm but heavy in that I am so done with both of you way that Flash liked to ignore.

 

“So let me get this straight,” Morita said, tapping a pen against the desk. “Flash - you were spreading rumors about Peter.”

 

Flash clenched his jaw. “I wasn’t spreading rumors. I was just-”

 

“You were loudly insinuating things about him in the middle of the lunchroom,” Morita cut in.

 

Flash glanced down at his hands. Okay, yeah, that sounded bad when you said it like that. “It wasn’t-”

 

“And Peter,” Morita continued, turning to look at him, “you threw the first punch.”

 

Flash’s head jerked up. “Thank you,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Parker didn’t even try to defend himself; he just shrugged a shoulder. “You know better,” Morita said. “We don’t tolerate fighting in this school.” Flash could feel the verdict coming before the words landed. “You’re both suspended. Flash, for three days. Peter-” Morita paused, letting it hang there for a moment, “-five days. Since you started it.”

 

Parker’s head dipped just slightly, his shoulders pulling in tighter. Flash didn’t know why it bugged him - he had won in some kind of petty way, right? But watching Parker shrink in on himself like that just made his stomach twist a little.

 

“And,” Morita went on, “I’ll be contacting your guardians.”

 

Flash’s stomach dropped.

 

Fantastic. His parents were going to lose their minds. Not even because he’d gotten into a fight - they’d care more about the inconvenience, the wasted time, the fact that now they’d have to rearrange something in their schedules to deal with it. He could already hear his dad’s sigh and the inevitable Eugene, do you ever think before you act?

 

Still, his own dread was nothing compared to the look on Parker’s face.

 

He went white. Not pale, not worried - flat-out white, like the word guardian had just translated to executioner in his head.

 

“Uh-” Parker started, shifting in his chair. “Could you maybe not - um - aunt May’s at work, she can’t-”

 

“That’s fine,” Morita interrupted briskly. “We’ll call the alternate guardian listed here.” Flash didn’t even think much of it until Morita added, “We have - we have Tony Stark on file?”

 

Flash’s head whipped toward Parker. “Wait, what? ”

 

Peter was already flushing. “It’s not - sometimes Mr. Stark helps with… legal stuff.”

 

Legal stuff.

 

Flash’s mind went blank for a moment. Tony Stark. The Tony Stark.

 

The billionaire. The guy who, yeah, was cool in theory, but also had the reputation of being about as stable as a house of cards in a hurricane. And Peter was saying that he handled Peter’s “legal stuff”? What the hell did that even mean?

 

Flash didn’t like the way that sounded. He didn’t like it at all. In fact, it sounded bad. Really bad.

 

“Wait - what does that mean?” Flash demanded. “What kind of legal stuff?”

 

Peter’s eyes flickered with something - guilt? Annoyance? Fear? “It’s just - complicated. You wouldn’t get it.”

 

Which was basically an admission of yes, it’s sketchy as hell but I’m not telling you. Flash felt his pulse spike. He could feel the pieces connecting in ways he didn’t like - injuries, secrecy, a powerful adult with “legal control” over him for vague reasons…

 

Mr. Stark.

 

Flash’s brain immediately went to the worst possible place, but Morita was already picking up the phone, dialing. Parker seemed to be floundering, hands opening and closing on his knees like he wanted to grab the phone away but knew he couldn’t.

 

“It’s not-” Parker said under his breath, aimed vaguely toward Flash. “It’s not like - he’s just-”

 

“You live with him?” Flash cut in, keeping his voice low because, okay, this was insane.

 

Parker shook his head quickly. “No. It’s complicated - he just helps with - ” He stopped, then started again. “He’s like - legally-”

 

Legally what, Parker? Flash’s mind filled in the blanks, and none of them were good.

 

The principal was talking to someone on the other end now, confirming details. Parker was hunched over, staring at the floor, and every awkward, evasive thing he said was making it sound worse.

 

“I just don’t want to bother him,” Parker muttered.

 

Flash blinked. “Bother him? If you’re saying you don’t want him to find out-”

 

“It’s not-” Parker’s voice was sharp now, defensive, and his ears were red. “I just - can we not-”

 

Flash leaned back in his chair, feeling something sour crawl into his gut. The more Parker tripped over himself, the more Flash was convinced that this was something horrible.

 

Morita covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Peter, he says he’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

 

Parker closed his eyes for a second like he was bracing for impact.

 

He thought back to Parker’s apartment the other day. The bills on the fridge. That burner phone. Now his stomach felt tight, and the smug little thrill of having won the fight was long gone.

 

Parker had folded his arms and was practically folded in on himself, knees drawn up as much as the chair allowed. Morita went back to his call, asking Stark something about pickup arrangements. Flash stared at the side of Parker’s head.  

 

It didn’t add up. Or maybe it did, and Flash just didn’t want it to.

 

Peter had practically admitted Stark had some sort of… legal hold over him. Guardianship? Something like that. And not in a “cool mentor” way - more like in a “don’t ask too many questions” way. And Peter was jumpy about it. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes when the principal said they’d have to call their guardians. Flash had been ready to groan because his parents were going to lose it at him for getting suspended, but Peter… Peter had gone pale in that clammy, sickly way people get when they’ve just heard bad news.

 

His first thought - before he could stop it - was, Oh God, it’s true. He’s getting himself caught up in scary shit for cash.

 

He tried to tell himself it was stupid. He’d seen Tony Stark on TV - guy was arrogant, sure, but he didn’t look like someone who’d… Flash didn’t even want to finish the thought. But then Peter sat there with his shoulders hunched up around his ears, and the principal kept going, and the whole thing just got worse.

 

Legal stuff.

 

That could mean a thousand things, none of them good. He wanted to ask, but the principal was still in the middle of his “I expected better from both of you” speech.

 

—

 

When Tony Stark finally arrived, it was almost surreal. The man was in an expensive suit, sunglasses indoors, the whole celebrity package. Flash would’ve been starstruck if he wasn’t too busy glaring at him. The guy barely even looked at the principal before swiftly stepping past the two of them - now sitting on opposite seats outside of his office - before the door clicked shut.  

 

And Peter… Peter didn’t look relieved. He looked smaller somehow, like he’d been hoping the guy wouldn’t actually show.

 

When they were dismissed, Tony put a hand on Peter’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world and started steering him toward the door, and something in his stomach curled. Flash watched it happen before his own body moved - he shot forward, grabbed Peter’s arm, and blurted, “Text me later so I know you’re safe.”

 

It wasn’t smooth, wasn’t subtle, but subtlety had never been his thing.

 

“Get your hand off the kid.” Tony Stark had snapped, and Flash’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to swing at the guy, to shove him, to do something. But Peter was looking between them like he wanted to disappear entirely, and Flash forced himself to let go.

 

He stood there, fists curling at his sides, watching the man lead Peter away. Every instinct told him he should follow. Every instinct told him something was wrong.

 

He’d seen plenty of messed-up stuff growing up - he knew when someone was involved in something bad. He didn’t care how stupid it sounded. Flash was going to keep an eye on Peter, even if Peter didn’t want him to. Even if Tony Stark noticed. Even if it meant starting another fight tomorrow.

 

Because whatever was going on… Peter clearly wasn’t going to tell anyone.

 

—

 

Peter slumped against the passenger-side window, cheek pressed to the cool glass, as the car hummed. He wished he could melt into the tinted pane, wished he could slip away into the noise of traffic and disappear. Tony’s voice was a steady drone somewhere to his left.

 

The principal’s office had been humiliating enough - and now he was in Tony’s car, trapped, with no way to hide from the questions he knew were coming.

 

“-unacceptable, Pete. Totally unacceptable. You’re better than this. Fighting in the cafeteria?” Tony’s tone sharpened, voice ricocheting around the enclosed space. “What, were you hoping to put on a show for the lunch crowd? Give everyone a little matinée of Rocky Balboa in action?”

 

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t look away from the window, either. The passing blur of storefronts and pedestrians was easier to stare at than Tony’s reflection in the rearview mirror. If he opened his mouth, the words would just choke in his throat, and he’d end up blurting something awful. He could already hear it: Flash thinks I’m a prostitute, Mr. Stark. Isn’t that hilarious?  

 

Yeah, that would go over well.

 

“Nothing?” Tony prodded after a moment. “No clever comeback? No ‘sorry, Mister Stark, I’ll try to keep my fists to myself’? You’re just gonna do the silent treatment thing?”

 

Peter’s chest ached. He folded his arms tighter across himself, shrinking against the door. His ribs still hurt from patrol the other night, and the seatbelt pressing against them wasn’t doing him any favors. He wanted Tony to stop, but he also wanted him to keep going, to fill the silence so Peter didn’t have to.

 

Tony sighed, long and tired. The sound of it made Peter glance, just for a second, at the man’s reflection in the mirror. His eyes weren’t sharp anymore. They were worried. 

 

“Okay, kid,” Tony said more softly. “Help me out here. Tell me what actually happened. Why him? Why today? I know that Flash kid is a pain in the ass, but you’ve managed to dodge him for years without throwing a punch.”

 

Peter’s throat locked up. 

 

Instead, he muttered, “Where are we going?”

 

Tony’s eyes flicked up in the mirror, caught his for half a heartbeat before Peter looked away again. There was a pause. Then Tony sighed again, heavier this time. “To the Tower,” he said. “I told May what happened-”

 

Peter winced, head thunking against the glass. He hadn’t meant to do it so obviously, but the thought of May hearing about this made his stomach curl in on itself.

 

“-and she wants me to find out what’s going on before she jumps to conclusions,” Tony continued evenly, like he hadn’t noticed. “Look, I get it. You don’t wanna talk right now. And I’m not gonna pry the words out of you with a crowbar. But if you’re gonna sit there like a statue, then-”

 

Peter bristled. “Then what?” His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t pull it back.

 

“Then I’m gonna have to fill in the blanks myself,” Tony said flatly.

 

Peter twisted in his seat, glaring at him. “It was just a dumb fight. It doesn’t even matter.”

 

Tony’s lips pressed into a thin line in the mirror. The silence stretched, thick and taut, until Tony finally said, “It does matter. Because you, of all people, should know better. If you’d hit that other kid just a little harder-”

 

“I wouldn’t have!” Peter snapped, anger bubbling up fast and hot. “I’m in control of my strength! I have to be, to do literally anything. I’m not just gonna slip up because I’m angry at Flash for being a dick-”

 

“Peter.” Tony’s voice cut sharp, firm enough to slice through the car’s low hum. Peter’s voice faltered, died.

 

“That’s enough,” Tony said, tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re not - listen. You’re not as in control as you think you are. You’re still young. You’ve got instincts, hormones, a temper - don’t give me that look, I’m serious.”

 

Peter’s fists curled tight in his lap, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to yell, to explain that he knew his own body better than anyone, that he lived every second of every day with the fear of what could happen if he lost control, but-

 

“Stopping bike thieves and getting cats out of trees is one thing, but-”

 

Peter felt like he was on fire. The rage wasn’t hot in the way he expected it to be, but it was more like a smoldering fire that had been burning in his chest for weeks and finally blown up all at once. He wanted to spit on Tony’s million-dollar car, scratch the leather with his nails, kick at the fancy touchscreen dashboard until it cracked. 

 

He wanted to wreck something, because Tony still didn’t get it. He never got it.

 

How couldn't he? How could Tony look at him and still think he was the same scrawny kid he’d met in Queens, the one with the cracked calculator and the oversized hoodie? Peter had crashed Tony’s plane. He’d had a building dropped on him. He’d fought alien weapons and the Vulture and worse, and still Tony clung to the idea that Peter was just a dumb kid, because that was easier. Easier to file him away in a neat little box, easier to manage and control.

 

Tony didn’t even hesitate. He kept talking, “-but letting yourself get genuinely angry enough to tackle a normal, unenhanced kid is dangerous. You need to get used to controlling yourself, because I know everything’s alright now, but someday you’re gonna see something you don’t want to see, and you’re going to need to react properly, and-”

 

“You don’t know what I’ve seen!” Peter exploded. “You have no idea!”

 

“Peter-”

 

“No,” he snapped. “I’ve seen some terrible, awful things, and just because you sit in a fancy billion-dollar tower doesn’t mean you know more than everyone else! You try seeing what happens when people on the streets need help instead of just waiting for world-ending disasters! Just because people aren’t famous or rich doesn’t mean there isn’t horrific shit happening under your feet!”

 

His chest was heaving. The silence after was suffocating. His pulse roared in his ears.

 

Tony flicked the turn signal without a word, the rhythmic clicking filling the silence before the car swung sharply right. Peter lurched against the door, scrambling to catch himself before he smacked into the glass.

 

“You know what,” Tony said, voice calm in that way that wasn’t calm at all, that was carefully leashed, like the edge of a storm just waiting for a crack in the dam. “This was a bad idea. You’re going home.”

 

“Good,” Peter spat before he could stop himself, venom in every syllable. “I didn’t ask for you to come here.”

 

Tony’s hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening. “You don’t tend to pick and choose what you want when you get into fights.”

 

“I’m sorry I can’t just buy my way out of every inconvenient situation,” Peter shot back, heat surging again, stronger, meaner, uncontrollable.

 

Tony’s brows drew down in the rearview mirror. “Watch it,” he warned, low and dangerous.

 

Peter scoffed, ugly and sharp. “Why?”

 

“Because I’m driving you home,” Tony said, as though the fact of it should mean something.

 

Peter laughed, bitter and sharp, the kind of laugh that didn’t have any humor in it. 

 

“I never asked you to!” The words cracked out of him before he could think better of it, rising louder, harsher. “I didn’t ask you to show up, or stick your nose in, or make me your stupid little project so you can pat yourself on the back for helping the poor kid from Queens. You’re not my dad! You’re just some rich asshole who found out I was Spider-Man, figured you could use my strength - because I can only use it properly when it’s convenient to you, apparently - and then you showed up at my house and blackmailed me when I was fourteen into fighting Captain America over your issues. You’re not anything to me, so stop acting like I owe you something because you shoved yourself in when I didn't ask you to!”

 

The words hung between them, jagged and final, vibrating in the stale air of the car.

 

Silence fell.

 

Peter felt it instantly, the shift, the way Tony went very still. The air conditioner hummed, the engine purred, but Tony himself was frozen, his jaw set, his hands locked on the wheel.

 

Then, without a word, Tony guided the car to the curb and pulled over.

 

Peter’s chest froze. A chill swept down his spine, cutting through the heat of his anger. His throat worked, suddenly dry. “Mr. Stark-” he started, voice tight, apology hovering clumsily on his tongue.

 

“Out,” Tony said simply.

 

Peter’s mouth opened, panic flooding in hot and fast. “I - wait, I didn’t mean-” He tried to backpedal, scrambling for anything, but the look on Tony’s face in the mirror made the words shrivel.

 

“This is your stop,” Tony said, quiet but final. “You’re a few blocks from your place. I’m not gonna have a kid speak to me like that after I pick him up for fighting at school.” A moment of quiet, heavy and deliberate. “I’m serious, kid. Get out before I say something I’m gonna regret.”

 

Peter’s limbs felt heavy, like lead, as he fumbled with the seatbelt. He slid out stiffly, eyes stinging, throat clenched tight. He lingered on the curb, one hand on the door. He tried one last time, voice small and broken, “Mr. Stark, I didn’t…”

 

There was nothing in reply. Just Tony’s eyes forward, face carved into something cold and unreadable.

 

Peter closed the door. The slam echoed too loud in his ears.

 

The car pulled away without hesitation, the red glow of taillights shrinking into the distance until they disappeared altogether. Peter stood on the sidewalk. The city moved around him - cars honking, people brushing past - but it all felt muffled, far away.

 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking. The apartment wasn’t far, but he almost wished it was. The empty place was waiting for him, dark and quiet and hollow, and he told himself he didn’t care.

 

—

 

There was no text from Peter. 

 

There was no text from Peter, and he was trying not to panic. He’d called, but that didn’t get through. His texts were delivered, but they weren’t even opened. And yeah, maybe looking back over lunch he’d been a bit of an asshole - but he’d been trying to be nice. Parker needed money, and Flash was giving him money. He didn’t need to be so fucking proud all the time, and coming up and slamming cash down in front of him and saying that he didn’t need pity was fucking stupid, because maybe he didn’t need pity but he sure as hell needed the money.

 

And sure, maybe Flash shouldn’t have made those jokes, either, if they could even really be called jokes - but Peter just kept fucking poking at him until he couldn’t not snap back. But now, they were each away from each other, and Peter was with Tony fucking Stark, apparently, and Flash kept telling himself he wasn’t worried.

 

It was a lie, obviously - because people who weren’t worried didn’t check their phone every five minutes like they were waiting on a heart transplant update. People who weren’t worried didn’t have their stomach tied up in knots so tight it felt like they’d swallowed a ball of barbed wire. And people who weren’t worried definitely didn’t have an unspoken mental clock ticking down the hours since they’d last seen someone.

 

And it had been hours.

 

The detention thing - sure, that had been weird enough on its own. He’d expected Peter to be suspended longer than him, like the principal said. Then Stark showed up in his stupid thousand-dollar sunglasses and somehow got it downgraded, and Flash had hated every second of watching that. Not because the man had been rude to him - though “get your hand off the kid” still had his teeth grinding - but because the whole thing just looked wrong.

 

Peter had been pale and twitchy, shoulders hunched like he was expecting to be hit the second they left the room. And sure, okay, maybe Flash had done his fair share of shoving Parker around in the past, but even he knew what genuine fear looked like.  

 

The worst part was, Stark hadn’t even touched him. He’d just… hovered. Close enough that Peter kept glancing at him like he was checking for approval, and every time Tony spoke, Peter had kind of nodded - too fast, too automatic. Like he’d rehearsed this. Like saying the wrong thing was dangerous.

 

Flash had tried to make it better. Not that he’d admit it out loud, but telling Peter to text him later so he’d know he was safe had been as close as he’d come to saying hey, I know something’s seriously wrong here and I’m not gonna just ignore it.

 

And then Stark had snapped at him.

 

Now it had been - what? Four? Five hours?

 

Flash checked his phone again. Still nothing.

 

The read receipts were off, which was already suspicious, but the fact that Peter’s texts weren’t even being opened? That was worse. Calls went to ringing until they died, no voicemail. Like someone had seen the number and decided not to pick up. Or worse, like someone had taken the phone away from him entirely.

 

Flash tried to tell himself it was fine. Peter was probably just grounded or Tony had made him put the phone away, or- 

 

Or maybe Peter hated him.

 

Hm.

 

Flash tapped his fingers on the desk, restless energy building in his chest. Every time he tried to distract himself - video games, homework, scrolling through social media - it lasted about thirty seconds before he was staring at the blank text thread again.

 

He started drafting another message. You good? Delete. Need me to call someone? Delete. If you don’t answer I’m coming over. Delete.

 

God, he was going insane.

 

Because this wasn’t normal. None of it. Normal was a suspension and a few angry parents, not billionaire superheroes showing up to argue down punishments and whisking kids away like they owned them. Normal wasn’t Peter half-admitting that Stark had guardianship for legal stuff, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Normal wasn’t a sixteen-year-old kid having to clarify that, no, you couldn’t call his aunt because she was at work and anyway Stark handled “all that now.”

 

It was the way he’d said it. Flat. Resigned. Like it was just easier not to explain.

 

Flash raked a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, glaring at the phone like he could force it to ring by sheer willpower. He’d seen Peter bluff his way through bad grades, injuries, even random bruises he couldn’t explain - but earlier, when the principal had brought up guardians, there’d been no bluff. Just panic.

 

And now he was gone.

 

Flash’s brain kept replaying the moment Stark had said get your hand off the kid. The way Peter hadn’t even turned around, hadn’t even looked at him after that - just followed Stark out like a shadow. He told himself it was because Peter was embarrassed. Because the fight had been stupid and he probably didn’t want to deal with Flash anymore today.

 

But there was this other thought, gnawing at him. The one that made his stomach feel cold and tight.

 

What if Peter wasn’t allowed to text him back? What if something was happening right now and he couldn’t get to his phone, or Stark had taken it, or-

 

Flash sat up abruptly, grabbing the phone again. He tried calling. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Cut off. He called again. Same thing. By the fourth attempt, he was gripping the phone so hard his knuckles ached.

 

Alright. Fine. He wasn’t going to sit here doing nothing.

 

But he didn’t have Stark’s number. Didn’t have Peter’s aunt’s, either - not that he thought she would pick up if she didn’t recognize the number. All he had was Peter’s contact and the knowledge of where the guy lived. He stared at the door, weighing the options. He could show up. But if Tony Stark was there…

 

He swallowed hard.

 

Flash wasn’t afraid of Tony Stark, exactly. He just didn’t trust himself not to say - or do - something stupid if the guy mouthed off again. The urge to punch him was strong, and that wouldn’t exactly help Peter.

 

So for now, he stayed put. Sat there. Phone in hand. Waiting.

 

It was only when the sun went down and the street outside his window turned that deep, empty blue that he realized his hands had been shaking for the last ten minutes straight.

 

There was still no text from Peter.

 

—

 

Peter lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, but the ceiling blurred and swam in his vision no matter how long he kept his eyes open. 

 

His chest felt tight in the kind of way that had nothing to do with bruises or webbed ribs - it was just everything. Every stupid little thing about the day had stacked and stacked until it all crashed down on him. School had been unbearable; the fight with Flash. The principal’s office. The walk through the halls with everyone whispering. The cafeteria stares. And then Tony lecturing him like he was five and then pulling over to toss him out of the car like he wasn’t even worth the gas it would take to drive him the rest of the way.

 

He turned his head into the pillow and bit down hard, even though there wasn’t anyone to hear him if he yelled. 

 

Mr. Stark probably hated him now. He’d never said it, not out loud, but the way his voice had gone cold in the car, the way he’d said out without even looking at Peter was all the proof he needed. He was furious, and worse than furious, he was probably done. Finished with Peter. No more lab nights, no more food shoved in his hands while Tony muttered about calories, no more quick glances across a workbench that almost made Peter feel like he belonged there.

 

And of course, of course, this had to happen the same week his teachers had started reminding them about scholarship reapplication deadlines. Now Peter had a suspension-almost-detention on his record, which was basically the same thing. Colleges were brutal. Scholarships were brutal. And he couldn’t afford to lose even a sliver of an opportunity. He couldn’t afford anything.

 

“Fuck,” Peter whispered into the pillow, the word muffled but still sharp enough to sting his own ears.

 

His phone sat on the nightstand, facedown. The idea of reaching for it, of typing out a message, was like dangling his own hand over the edge of a fire pit. He wanted to text Mr. Stark something, anything, a joke or a half-apology or a sorry I was such a dickhead. But he couldn’t. Because if Tony didn’t answer, or worse, if Tony just told him not to come by the lab anymore, Peter wasn’t sure he could handle it. 

 

It was better to sit in silence and imagine maybe Tony hadn’t given up entirely yet, than to go looking for confirmation that he had.

 

He rolled over onto his side, yanking the blanket up over his head. His stomach cramped low and mean, reminding him that all he’d had since lunch was the pathetic granola bar from his backpack. He’d been counting on lab night leftovers, counting on Tony’s weird habit of ordering enough food for six people, because that meant Peter usually got to leave with at least two full containers. Enough to stretch into lunch and dinner for two days if he was careful. 

 

Now he’d burned that bridge. There wasn’t going to be food handed to him in greasy paper bags or takeout boxes anymore. Just silence. Just Tony being finished.

 

“Fuck,” he hissed again, squeezing his eyes shut so tight the inside of his lids went white.

 

It meant another job. He was going to have to try again, find another shift that May wouldn’t notice, squeeze it into his already collapsing schedule. He was already almost failing physics after zoning out during the last quiz - his own subject, the one thing that usually kept him steady - and now he had to juggle work on top of patrol and everything else. He could already feel the exhaustion climbing on his back.

 

But he couldn’t make himself get up. 

 

He couldn’t even drag himself to the kitchen to see if maybe there was still half a packet of ramen shoved in the back of the cabinet. He stayed in bed instead, stiff and aching, the kind of stillness that felt more like bracing against an avalanche than resting.

 

The apartment door creaked open. His heart jerked hard in his chest, thumping painfully against his ribs. 

 

May was home.

 

He didn’t move.

 

There was the sound of her bag being set down before her footsteps crossed the floor, steady and familiar, setting his teeth on edge because she would know. May always knew. The lightest knock came against his door, too soft to actually mean she was asking permission. More like a warning. A breath, then she was inside.

 

Peter squeezed his eyes tighter, pretending to sleep, though it was useless.

 

“Hey, baby,” she murmured.

 

Her weight sank into the edge of the mattress, and his heart clenched until it hurt. She didn’t say anything else right away. Just a warm hand settled against his head, the way it used to when he was younger, when he’d tried hiding under the covers after breaking a glass or picking a fight with Ben. He swallowed hard, throat clicking. His eyes stung, but he kept them shut, kept himself perfectly still except for the quiet sniffle that escaped before he could stop it.

 

He hated himself for it. For being here, like this, for screwing everything up so badly that even May had to sit here trying to put him back together. For feeling small again, helpless again, curled under the blankets with nothing to show for himself except failure.

 

She sighed. “I know you’re awake,” she said gently. A hand combed through his hair. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

 

Peter’s fist knotted tighter into the sheets, and his eyes burned, hot and raw, but he didn’t open them, didn’t want to see her face because if he did, if he caught the look he knew would be there - soft, sad, patient - it would undo him completely. 

 

“...Today sucked,” was all he could manage, and even that came out thin and broken.

 

“Baby,” May said again, quiet but firm, and her arm shifted against him. He let himself shuffle just enough, shoulders hunching as if he were bracing for impact, and then she was tugging him into her collar. Her shirt smelled faintly like detergent and hospitals, something tired and ordinary and achingly familiar. 

 

Peter clung to her then - carefully, so carefully, because she was small and fragile and the bones in her wrists pressed too sharp through her skin. He didn’t dare hold her the way he wanted to, not with his strength always a half-step from spilling out, but he held her anyway. And then he sank, completely, letting his weight fold into hers like he had no choice.

 

It felt like he was falling apart from the inside out.

 

May didn’t flinch. She just wrapped her arms around him, one hand sliding up into his hair, fingers combing gently through the mess of it like she’d done when he was a little kid with fevers. He bit down on the urge to sob and instead pressed his face harder into her shoulder.

 

“It’s okay,” she murmured, voice low and steady.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter choked out against her shirt, the words hot and pathetic. They spilled out like he couldn’t stop them. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

 

“Hey. It’s okay.” She smoothed down his hair, her cheek resting against the top of his head. And then, after a pause, she let out a wry, tired snort. “Well, it’s not okay. You shouldn’t be getting into fights, Peter. But I know it’s been rough, and you’ve had a lot going on recently.”

 

Her sigh brushed over his scalp, and the sound of it ached worse than the words.

 

“I’ve been worried about you,” she admitted, quiet but pointed. “You’ve been coming home so late, and you’re so skinny, and you’ve been so quiet, Peter. I don’t-” Her voice caught, and she started again, softer. “I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know what to do.”

 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut tighter, because the burn behind them was threatening to spill over.

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve been stressing you out,” she said, her fingers still carding through his hair. “I’m working on saving up a little more so we can spend more time together. We’re gonna get Thai food tonight, okay? Just as a treat. I’ll order it.”

 

Peter swallowed, his throat aching. “That’s expensive,” he muttered into her shoulder, voice rough and muffled.

 

“I don’t care,” May said simply, her hand pressing briefly to the back of his head. “We deserve something nice.”

 

Her words cracked something else in him - some awful mixture of guilt and relief and love that left his chest too full and his eyes wet. He held onto her tighter, careful and desperate all at once, and let himself breathe against her until it didn’t feel like the whole world was pressing down on his spine.

 

—

 

Forty minutes later, the apartment smelled like basil and chili, and the crinkle of paper takeout boxes littered the coffee table between them. Peter sat pressed against May on the sagging couch, their knees touching.

 

Some terrible soap opera was on the screen, the kind with melodramatic pauses and exaggerated zoom-ins that made the dialogue even worse. Peter loved it. The sheer ridiculousness of it was a relief, like his brain could switch off and just laugh at how fake everything looked.

 

“You’re so cold all the time,” May scolded gently, glancing over when she noticed how stiff his posture was. Before he could respond, she reached for one of the ratty throw blankets draped over the back of the couch. It was old, frayed along the edges, but warm. She tossed it over his shoulders like it was second nature.

 

Peter gave a half-shrug, shoveling fried rice into his mouth to avoid answering. “I run cold,” he offered between bites.

 

May hummed, not pushing, and went back to picking at her noodles. For a while, they both let the terrible soap fill the silence. But eventually, May set her box down, wiped her hands on a napkin, and said, “Tony told me you guys had a fight.”

 

His fork clattered against the box, and he winced hard enough that his shoulders curled in. “He told you that?”  

 

“No,” May said calmly. “But I figured, because he was acting weird when I called him after my shift. And you just confirmed it.”

 

Peter’s mouth went dry. He wanted to argue, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth - so instead he just went quiet, staring down at the half-empty rice.

 

May didn’t press. She just shifted slightly, letting her hand drop to his knee. “You don’t need to talk about it,” she said gently. “But I want to know if there’s anything I can do to help."

 

Peter swallowed, nodded, then slid his hand over hers and gave it a quick squeeze back. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack if he said anything, so instead he cleared his throat and forced his attention back to the screen. “You’re missing it,” he said, nodding toward the TV. “She just slapped her twin sister.”

 

May huffed out a laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders, and let it go.

 

At some point, Peter’s fork slipped from his hand, his head tilted against her shoulder, and the weight of the day finally dragged him under. He felt five years old again - safe, cared for, and allowed to just be small and simple and worry free.

 

—

 

Peter hadn’t wanted to come back on Monday. Every cell in his body told him to fake sick, to stay buried under his sheets, to come up with some excuse about feeling sick that would keep him safely tucked away in his room. But May had given him that look - stern, no-nonsense, the kind of look that said she’d call the school herself if he tried anything - and so here he was, trudging through the doors with his stomach knotted so tight it hurt.

 

He kept his head down as he moved through the hallway, clutching the strap of his backpack. The whispers were still there. He could feel them like static against his skin. Maybe they were about the fight. Probably they were about the fight. It wasn’t like Peter Parker ever threw punches at school. Everyone knew he was the type to duck and hide, the type to take whatever people said. But last week he hadn’t ducked, he hadn’t hidden. He’d snapped, and the image of Flash’s face when Peter’s fist had connected was still burned into the inside of his eyelids.

 

So yeah, maybe the whispers were just about that. Maybe.

 

“Parker.”

 

The sound of his name had him jerking his head up, and there Flash was, blocking his path like he always did. Same smirk, same stupid body language that screamed he thought he owned the hallway. Peter bristled immediately. He hadn’t forgotten the things Flash had said. He hadn’t forgotten the tone.

 

“Where the hell were you all weekend?” Flash demanded, squinting at him like he was trying to solve some kind of equation.

 

Peter shifted his weight, trying to move around him. “Nowhere.”

 

“Dude,” Flash tried again. “Stop for a second. I just - are you serious? It’s - you’re - with Tony Stark?”

 

Peter froze, then frowned. “What?”

 

“Come on,” Flash said, leaning in. “It’s Tony Stark. You think I’m that dumb?”

 

For a brief, insane moment, Peter thought maybe Flash was finally putting it together. That the internship wasn’t a joke, wasn’t some stupid lie Peter had given for attention or something else. He opened his mouth - but then Flash pulled back, face pinching.

 

“God, that’s-” Flash said. “Dude. You’re - with Iron Man? He’s the one hurting you?”

 

It hit Peter like ice water. His stomach lurched. It wasn’t that he thought the internship wasn’t real - it was about what Flash thought the internship really meant.

 

Peter’s hands curled into fists, nails biting against his palms. “Fuck you,” he muttered, shoving past Flash with his shoulder harder than he needed to. Flash stumbled back a step, but Peter didn’t stop. He just kept walking, forcing air into his lungs. He was already sick of this day and it wasn’t even first period yet.

 

The hours dragged. Every classroom felt like a fishbowl. People kept looking at him - too long, too openly. He told himself it was the fight. They were all just shocked that Peter had actually swung. That had to be it. His skin still crawled under the weight of their stares, though, and by lunchtime he’d nearly convinced himself that he was imagining it all.

 

By the time he reached his locker, Peter just wanted to shove his books inside, maybe grab something from his bag, and get to class without anyone else talking to him. He leaned against the cool metal, exhaling slowly, and then someone sidled up next to him.

 

Relief spread through his chest like warmth. Ned. It had to be Ned. Ned always found him in the hallways, always had his back. Peter’s shoulders eased.

 

And then an arm slid around his waist.

 

“Hey,” a voice said beside him, low and casual. Peter went rigid, every muscle locking up. The voice wasn’t Ned’s. The hand was broad, firm, pressing into his side. “Are the rumors true?” the voice asked.

 

Peter blinked up, and the face that looked back wasn’t familiar at all. A senior, maybe. Broad-shouldered, smug expression. Someone Peter had never seen before, but who clearly knew him.

 

“What?” he blurted, stupidly.

 

The guy smiled like Peter’s confusion was funny. His hand slipped lower, pressing against the small of Peter’s back. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t move.

 

“Relax,” the boy murmured, leaning close enough that Peter could smell the cologne on him. Relax. Like Peter could even breathe. His tongue felt heavy, clumsy. Words jammed in his throat. The boy tilted his head, looking him up and down with too much interest. “So? How much do you charge?”

 

It was like a switch flipped. Heat roared through Peter’s face, through his ears. His hands shook as he slammed his locker shut, the sound echoing sharp in the hallway.

 

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, his voice cracking halfway through.

 

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t look at the boy’s face, didn’t dare look at anyone else’s either. He just shoved away from the lockers and stalked down the hallway, knuckles white around the strap of his bag. He could feel the eyes. Dozens of them, following him. Watching him like they knew, like they were all in on the same joke.

 

His throat burned. He didn’t stop walking.

 

—

 

By fourth period, it was everywhere.

 

Peter had thought the first guy was just a freak occurrence - some weird senior who wanted to mess with him. But by the time the bell rang again, he’d already had two more people stop him in the hallway. One girl leaned against his locker with her arms crossed and a grin like she knew something he didn’t, asking if his “rates were reasonable.” A guy from the basketball team smacked him on the shoulder as he passed and murmured in his ear, “Got a friends-and-family discount?”

 

Peter had gone hot all over, blood roaring in his ears, but his mouth stayed glued shut. He’d slammed his locker and shoved past, not trusting his voice to hold steady if he tried to answer.

 

By lunch, it was unbearable.

 

Someone brushed a hand down his back as he moved through the cafeteria line, fingers skimming his waistband before he twisted out of reach. Peter barely ate - stomach knotted too tight, throat dry - and kept his head down. It didn’t matter. People still whispered. He caught his name in snatches, sometimes just the word hooker half-muffled behind hands.

 

He tried to ignore it. Tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. But every brush of skin - a shoulder knocking into his too deliberately, a laugh behind him - had him stiffening.

 

It got worse when he sat down. Ned slid into the seat across from him, tray clattering, his usual easy smile gone as soon as he caught sight of Peter’s expression. “Hey,” Ned said carefully, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Uh… are you okay?”

 

Peter forced a shrug. “Fine.”

 

Ned hesitated. “People are saying-” He stopped, jaw clenching. “They’re saying stuff, and it’s not true, obviously, but…”

 

Peter looked away, shame curling tight in his chest. “Doesn’t matter.”

 

Before Ned could answer, someone else did.

 

A tall junior - Peter didn’t even know his name - sauntered past their table and dropped a hand next to his tray, and another onto Peter’s shoulder like they were best friends. He leaned down, lips brushing close to Peter’s ear. “Hey, baby. I heard you loved a good time.”

 

Peter jerked back so fast his chair scraped, heart thundering, but the guy just laughed, squeezing his shoulder before starting to pull away.

 

That’s when MJ’s fork buried itself in his other hand.

 

The whole cafeteria froze for a beat at the sound - metal biting into skin, the guy yelping as blood welled bright against the tines. “What the fuck?” He shouted, yanking his hand back, “You crazy fucking bitch, I’ll-”

 

MJ didn’t even look fazed. She sat across from Peter, still chewing, one hand calmly gripping her fork like she’d been meaning to stick it in someone all day. “Touch him again,” she said flatly, “and I’ll aim higher.”

 

The guy swore and stumbled back, clutching his hand, but he didn’t come close again.

 

Peter’s lungs finally dragged in air. Ned looked tense, eyes darting between Peter and MJ like he couldn’t decide if he should apologize or thank her.

 

Peter just hunched smaller in his seat, fists tight in his lap, wishing more than anything that he could disappear.

 

—

 

It had been days.

 

Days since the fight in the cafeteria. Days since the trip to the principal’s office, since the suspension talk, since the horrible, horrible realization that Peter Parker - freaking Parker, of all people - was tangled up with Tony Stark in some way that made Flash’s stomach twist every time he thought about it. Days since Flash had watched the guy stalk out of the school building with his head down, shoulders hunched like the weight of the entire universe was resting squarely on him.

 

And in those days, Peter had perfected the art of avoiding him.

 

Flash wasn’t an idiot. He noticed things. People thought he was just a loudmouthed rich kid, and, yeah, maybe he was, but he wasn’t blind. Parker practically burned holes in the floor trying not to meet his eyes. He ducked out of hallways if Flash was coming down them, suddenly found places to be the second Flash showed up at lunch. Even in class, where it wasn’t possible to vanish without skipping, Parker made a point of sitting at the farthest desk possible and keeping his head buried in his notebook.

 

And okay, fine, maybe that was fair. The cafeteria thing had gone bad. Really bad. Flash knew he’d screwed up, but the whole mess was so hard to fix, because the harder he tried to make things better, the worse it got. It was like the fight in the cafeteria had ripped the fragile thread between them in half and Peter was determined to never let Flash get close enough to tie it back together again.

 

And the thing was - Flash didn’t even know why he cared. He should’ve been relieved. This was the Peter Parker he knew: the annoying, impossible kid who always had an answer for everything and a knack for getting under his skin. 

 

Avoiding him should’ve been a blessing. But instead, it gnawed at him. Sat in his stomach like a rock. He’d tried telling himself it didn’t matter, that Parker could stew in his own paranoia and pride, that Flash didn’t owe him anything.

 

But that was a lie, and he knew it. He owed Parker a hell of a lot more than he’d originally thought he had.

 

So when the chance finally came, when Parker was late for gym again and the locker room ended up being empty except for the two of them, Flash knew he wasn’t going to waste it.

 

Most of the guys had already changed and headed out, the air still thick with the smell of sweat and deodorant that didn’t quite cover it. Peter was late, which wasn’t a shocker. He was always late these days.

 

Flash lingered by his own locker, waiting. Watching the scrawny idiot limp in with that guarded, too-careful gait he always had now. It made Flash’s stomach clench just seeing it. Something was wrong, but Flash wasn’t equipped to figure out what. He wasn’t a guidance counselor. He wasn’t Parker’s mom. He wasn’t even a friend.

 

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

So when Peter dropped his bag on the bench and started tugging his shirt off, Flash pushed off his locker - trying to look casual even though his pulse was hammering - and said, “Hey.”

 

The reaction was instant. Peter bristled, head snapping up, fists half-clenching like he was ready to swing. His whole body was wired, defensive in a way that made Flash take a reflexive step back before he caught himself. Jesus. The guy actually thought he was about to get hit again.

 

The look in his eyes made Flash hesitate - it was sharp, defensive, and just a little desperate, like he really was about to swing at him again.

 

Flash lifted his hands in a quick surrender, even though his chest tightened with irritation at the implication. “Relax, I’m not here to fight you.”

 

Peter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He just glared like Flash had kicked his dog.

 

This was the part Flash sucked at - the actual talking. The words never came out the way he wanted them to. They jammed together, sharp and ugly, but he tried anyway.

 

“Look,” he started, leaning against the locker door, trying for casual and failing miserably. “About the cafeteria thing… that wasn’t… okay, I’m not saying it was my fault, exactly, because you’re the one who marched over and slammed the money down like you were trying to make a big deal out of everything, so technically you started it. But-”

 

Peter’s face was stony. Not impressed. Not forgiving. Just… tired.

 

“-but,” Flash continued, wincing at how stupid he sounded, “I probably… overreacted.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Or, like, reacted in the worst possible way.”

 

“That’s what you’re going with?” Peter’s voice was flat. “‘Sorry the school thinks you’re a sex worker, but this is on you?’”

 

Flash shrugged, trying to play it off, though his gut twisted. “I’m just saying, maybe if you hadn’t made such a scene with the money thing, then-”

 

“Are you seriously blaming me right now?” Peter snapped, eyes flashing with something sharp and dangerous.

 

“I’m not blaming you,” Flash shot back quickly, hands raised again. “I’m just… look, I’m trying to say sorry without actually saying it, because I’m not-”

 

“Good at it?” Peter supplied coldly.

 

Flash’s mouth opened, shut, then curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “...Sure.”

 

Silence. Parker looked like he was going to bolt, and Flash’s chest tightened. This was going sideways fast. He scrambled for something - anything - to keep him from walking out.

 

“So, uh…” he cleared his throat. Flash sucked in a breath and pushed the words out before he could lose his nerve. “Do you wanna do tutoring again?”

 

The words were out before he could second-guess them. And the look on Peter’s face - holy hell. The guy looked dumbfounded.  

 

“You… what?” Peter said, voice rising.

 

“Tutoring,” Flash repeated, forcing a grin. “You know, like before. Except maybe without the whole ‘I think you’re a prostitute’ misunderstanding this time.”

 

And Parker - God, he just stared at him, like Flash had said the most insane thing imaginable. His mouth fell open, his eyebrows scrunching up, his whole face a mix of shock and disgust.

 

“No,” he said finally, voice sharp with disbelief. “Fuck you. I’m not - I can’t believe I even…” He trailed off, but the venom in his tone was more than enough to fill the space.

 

Flash winced. He hadn’t exactly expected a warm welcome, but the sheer level of anger caught him off guard. “Dude, wait-”

 

“No.” Parker snapped the word like a whip, cutting him off before he could get another syllable out. His voice shook with pure fury. “Fuck you. You just - you just make everything worse. I don’t know how you do it, but good job. I can’t believe you managed to fuck everything up all over again.”

 

Flash’s chest went tight, his mouth working uselessly before sound came out. “I didn’t mean to,” he argued weakly. It sounded pathetic even to his own ears, but it was the truth. “I - I didn’t know it was gonna be a big thing. I was trying to be nice.”

 

Parker barked a laugh, ugly and bitter, like it scraped his throat raw. “By leaving pity money stashed in my textbooks then calling me a prostitute in front of the whole school?” he hissed, face burning.

 

Flash faltered. His arms, crossed tight against his chest, dropped uselessly to his sides. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. What was he supposed to say? That he hadn’t meant it as pity, even though maybe it was? That he couldn’t stand walking into Parker’s apartment and seeing bills stacked like a death sentence on the fridge, or medical supplies scattered across the desk like they belonged to a street fighter instead of a skinny, weak, sixteen year old?

 

He wanted to say all of it. But none of the words came out right.

 

“I-” he started, then stopped. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Dude. Look. Just think about it, okay? That’s all I’m asking. Just… think about it.”

 

It sounded pathetic even to him.

 

Parker’s expression faltered, just for a second. His jaw unclenched, his shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, and for one dizzying moment Flash thought maybe - maybe he’d broken through. Maybe he wasn’t going to storm out after all.

 

But then someone outside the locker room yelled something - some random call, just background noise - and the moment shattered.

 

Peter’s eyes snapped back, hard again, and before Flash could say another word, an elbow jammed straight into his gut, hard and precise, right below his ribs. Air whooshed out of him in an ugly grunt. 

 

He doubled over instantly, wheezing, one hand clutching his stomach as his vision blurred from the sudden pain. His vision was spotting as Parker shoved past him and stalked out, his bag slamming against his hip.

 

Flash stayed bent for a long second, hands braced on his knees, gasping like a fish out of water. His stomach throbbed where the hit had landed, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to yell after Peter or just curl up on the disgusting locker room floor.

 

By the time he managed to drag in a breath, Parker was already gone, the door swinging shut in his wake.

 

Flash leaned back against the lockers, still bent over, trying to force air back into his lungs. His ribs ached, his pride stung, and his head spun from the whiplash of the whole conversation. He coughed, winced, and finally managed to rasp out, “Yeah, okay. I deserved that one.”

 

And the worst part was he actually kind of meant it.

 

—

 

Peter let himself into the apartment as quietly as possible. The hallway light buzzed, flickered, and then gave up entirely, leaving him standing in the dark. He muttered a curse under his breath, groping for the wall, and finally shoved the door closed behind him with his hip.

 

The place was silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the muffled sound of May’s snores from her bedroom. She’d gotten home late again. He’d heard the lock turn while he’d been lying awake earlier, pretending to be asleep, and then her door clicking shut. That meant she’d picked up another shift, or swapped with someone. Either way, she was exhausted, and the thought of her working herself to the bone just to keep them afloat made Peter’s stomach knot tighter than it already was.

 

He dropped his bag on the kitchen chair and flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. He tried again, harder, as if brute force might make electricity magically work. Nothing.

 

Of course. The bulb in the ceiling fixture had gone a few days ago. The desk lamp in his room had blown out, too. They hadn’t been replaced. They couldn’t be replaced.

 

Peter rubbed a hand over his face, irritation prickling in his chest. It was such a stupid, small thing, lightbulbs. A couple of bucks at the hardware store. Except when you added them to the stack of bills pinned under a magnet on the fridge, a couple of bucks turned into money they didn’t have.

 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned on the torch on his phone, and he swallowed hard when he stepped inside. He wasn’t supposed to care, but he did. Darkness made everything feel compressed, suffocating. He hated the dark.

 

He hated it more than he wanted to admit.

 

Which was why he left his phone torch on now, propped on the nightstand so it spilled weak light over his bed. The battery would drain. He’d regret it tomorrow. But right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

His stomach growled, loud in the quiet, and he sighed. He padded back to the kitchen, careful not to wake May, and opened the fridge.

 

The dim interior light revealed: one carton of milk, half empty, watered down enough that it sloshed thinly in the container. Two eggs. A takeout container with something unidentifiable that had been shoved to the back. A single apple, bruised on one side.  

 

Peter stared at it all for a long moment. His chest hollowed out. He shut the door with more force than he meant to, the rubber seal sucking tight with a soft thud.

 

There wasn’t enough. Not for him, not for May.

 

And the bills. He glanced at the fridge door again, at the overlapping papers taped there with May’s careful, desperate system: red notices, reminders, electricity, gas, rent. A couple had FINAL stamped across them. He’d tried not to notice, but he noticed. He noticed everything.

 

Peter dropped heavily into the chair, rubbing his face with both hands. He could pick up another job. Maybe some random part-time shifts, anything that wouldn’t pull his grades under. Except… jobs were complicated now. He was Spider-Man. He couldn’t always show up. He couldn’t risk losing his scholarship. And he couldn’t let anyone ask too many questions.

 

Tutoring, though. That had been easy. Reliable. Cash. No questions asked. No scholarship risks.

 

And yeah, it had been Flash of all people, which was humiliating on about seven different levels, but the money had been real. He’d had food in the fridge because of it. He’d had the luxury of not feeling like his chest was going to cave in every time May so much as sighed over the bills.

 

His fists curled on the tabletop.

 

The other option - another humiliation - was going back to Mr. Stark. Begging forgiveness for blowing up at him, for shouting in the car, for everything. Maybe he could earn his way back into lab nights, into pizza boxes stacked on stainless steel counters, into being able to fall asleep on the lab couch or his guest room there without worrying about what was in the fridge at home.

 

He missed it. God, he missed it so badly. He missed Mr. Stark’s stupid sarcasm, the weird way he cared without admitting he cared, the lab equipment Peter had never dreamed of touching. He missed not feeling like he was one wrong move away from everything collapsing.

 

And he missed the food.

 

He tipped his head back against the chair, squeezing his eyes shut. His throat felt tight, his chest heavier by the second.

 

Fuck.

 

He didn’t want to call Mr. Stark. He didn’t want to crawl back like some pathetic kid who couldn’t keep his temper in check. And he sure as hell didn’t want to crawl back to Flash, of all people, hat in hand, asking for tutoring money like some twisted parody of a friend.

 

But the fridge was empty. The lightbulbs were dead. May was working herself raw. And Peter was so, so tired of trying to hold everything together on his own.

 

The torchlight from his phone glared faintly down the hallway. His eyelids burned.

 

He pressed his palms into his eyes until sparks danced in the dark and whispered, “Fuck.”

 

And there was no answer, except May’s soft snore in the next room and the hum of the empty fridge.

 

Notes:

sorry peter. also sorry tony but like it had to happen. for angst reasons

Chapter 7: reconcilliation

Summary:

Peter’s phone buzzed against the nightstand, rattling against the wood. The thin beam of the torchlight lit across the ceiling, and for a few seconds he just lay there, blinking blearily at the glow without moving. His whole body felt heavy. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to look.

The buzzing stopped. Then started again.

With a groan, Peter fumbled for the phone, blinking hard until the screen swam into focus. His heart gave a violent lurch.

Mr. Stark.

Notes:

yooo sorry for the mini break BUT i come bearing gifts and more angst. i fix it but also make things worse simultaneously, so. take that as you will ig

sorry for the bit of the break, i've been working long ass unpaid days bc of my prac and its actually killing me 😭😭 ive got 2 more weeks then updates should hopefully pick up a little more haha

Peter’s phone buzzed against the nightstand, rattling against the wood. The thin beam of the torchlight lit across the ceiling, and for a few seconds he just lay there, blinking blearily at the glow without moving. His whole body felt heavy. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to look.

 

The buzzing stopped. Then started again.

 

With a groan, Peter fumbled for the phone, blinking hard until the screen swam into focus. His heart gave a violent lurch.

 

Mr. Stark.

 

His thumb hovered uselessly over the glass. He almost dropped it. His mouth went dry.

 

It wasn’t - he hadn’t - Tony hadn’t texted him once since the car. Since the yelling. Since Peter had said things he shouldn’t have that had been boiling up all day and then spilled everywhere. He’d thought - maybe that this was it. Maybe the silence was permanent, and Tony hated him.

 

But the screen lit up with two words:

 

Mr. Stark: Hey kid.

 

And then, before he could even think to answer, another line appeared:

 

Mr. Stark: Are you awake?

 

Peter’s breath caught. His heart was pounding so loud he could barely think. His fingers shook as he typed, too fast, too clumsy.

 

Peter: Yes im awaek

 

Peter: awakee

 

Peter: awake

 

Fuck. It looked rushed, desperate, and needy. He wanted to sink straight into the mattress and disappear.

 

And then the phone rang.

 

The vibration startled him so badly he almost threw it. He fumbled to accept the call, pressing it to his ear with a shaky, whispered, “H-hi.”

 

“Kid.” Tony’s voice filled the silence, warm and steady in a way that made Peter’s chest ache. “Did I wake you?”

 

Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. His throat was tight, dry. He forced out, “N-no, I - I was… awake. I was already up.” A lie. He rubbed at his eyes, clutching the phone tighter. 

 

“Good. I didn’t want to - uh. Never mind.” Tony let out a breath, some kind of chuckle or sigh, hard to tell. “Look, I just-”

 

Peter’s pulse jumped into his throat. This was it. This was the call. He’d hear it in Tony’s voice, the disappointment, the clipped words: bring the suit back, don’t call me again, we’re done.

 

“I wanted to…” Tony started, and Peter’s breath hitched so sharp it hurt.

 

“Mr. Stark, I’m sorry,” Peter blurted, the words tumbling out all at once. He sat up straight, knees drawn tight against his chest, phone pressed hard to his ear. “I didn’t mean it. I - I was mean, and I shouldn’t’ve - it was just, I’d had a really bad day, and-” His voice cracked. His eyes burned. He swallowed hard against the tears pressing at the back of his throat. “I’m sorry. Please don’t - I didn’t mean it.”

 

There was a long pause on the other end. Peter couldn’t breathe.

 

And then Tony said, softly, “Hey. No. Kid. Stop. You don’t have to-” He exhaled, words coming slower, more careful. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I pushed too hard, too fast. That’s on me. You were right about a lot of things.”

 

Peter froze, staring into the dark. His heartbeat was still racing, but in a different way now - less dread, more disbelief. “I - what?”

 

“I’m saying I messed up,” Tony repeated, firm but not sharp. “And you were right. It wasn’t fair. You’re allowed to be mad about what happened. Hell, you should’ve been mad sooner.”

 

Peter blinked hard. The pressure behind his eyes was unbearable. He curled tighter around the phone, wishing he could believe all of it, wishing he didn’t feel so stupid for almost sobbing into the receiver.

 

“I’m still sorry,” he whispered. “I - I shouldn’t’ve said all that. It wasn’t fair. I just…” His voice trailed off, too shaky to finish.

 

“It’s okay,” Tony said again, and this time it sounded like he meant it. “It was - look it was a rough start. We’ll do better next time.”

 

The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel hostile. It felt… fragile. Tentative.

 

And then Tony, in his way, broke it with a half-joke. “I don’t just keep you around the lab for muscle and missions. If I did, though, I think that’d be the first time I’d tried to befriend someone just to get stuff from them, which is a change of pace. Usually, people are after something of mine.” He snorted wryly at his own words, but Peter’s chest squeezed so hard he almost doubled over.

 

He thought of the fridge. The empty shelves. The watered-down milk. The bulbs that hadn’t been replaced. He thought of how easy it would be, right now, to just ask. To tell Tony that May was drowning, that he couldn’t keep up, that he needed help. That he missed more than the lab, more than the pizza boxes and the late nights - he missed not worrying whether there’d be food tomorrow.

 

His throat locked. His voice died before it could even form.

 

“Yeah,” he said instead, his voice thin and cracked. “That’d be - yeah.”

 

If Tony noticed the hesitation, he didn’t say. “Lab’s still open,” Tony offered. “Tuesdays and Thursdays. Don’t be late.”

 

Peter’s chest lurched. Relief and guilt tangled together so tight he couldn’t separate them. He clutched the phone, eyes stinging, nodding even though Tony couldn’t see. “Okay,” he whispered. “I - okay.”

 

And when the call ended, the silence of the apartment returned, but the air felt a little less suffocating. The fridge was still empty, the lightbulbs still blown. But Tuesday wasn’t so far away.

 

Peter told himself that was fine.

 

He lay awake long after the phone call ended, staring at the ceiling, the torchlight beam cutting a pale stripe across the water stain above his bed. He clutched his phone like it might burn him if he let go. Every few seconds, he replayed Tony’s words in his head, cycling through them, scraping them clean for hidden meanings. Rough start. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Don’t be late.

 

It should’ve made him feel better.

 

And it did - kind of. The dread that had been gnawing a hole in his chest eased a little. Tony didn’t hate him. He wasn’t kicked out. The lab was still there. That was… something.

 

But the fridge was still empty. The lightbulbs in his room were still out. And the money in May’s account was still a dwindling, terrifying number.

 

Tuesday wasn’t soon enough.

 

—

 

He found the job by accident.

 

It was Monday, one of the dead-quiet evenings where the city felt half-asleep, and Peter was late getting home from patrol. He cut through a side street to shave a couple minutes off the walk, landing awkwardly in an alley behind a row of small shops.

 

That was when he saw the sign.

 

HELP WANTED. Flexible Hours.

 

The flyer was taped crooked to the glass of a café door, the ink running slightly from weather. The shop was dark except for a single lamp near the counter, where a woman with silver hair sat hunched over a ledger, glasses low on her nose.

 

Peter stared. His stomach was a tight knot. He hadn’t actually been planning to get a job - he’d been thinking about it, sure, but thinking didn’t pay bills. This was… here. Right here.

 

He shoved his hood up and pushed the door open.

 

The bell above the frame jingled softly, startling the woman from her papers. She blinked at him, then smiled - tired, warm, the kind of smile that hit Peter in the chest because it was so much like May’s.

 

“Sorry, sweetheart, we’re closed,” she said. Her voice was rough with age, but gentle.

 

Peter swallowed, shifting on his feet. “I - I saw the sign. In the window. About help?”

 

“Oh.” Her eyebrows rose. She sat back, peering at him with curious eyes. “You looking for work?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” The words tumbled out too fast. “I mean, if you’re still hiring. I can work weeknights. I’m good with - uh - people. And cleaning. And… stuff.”

 

Her mouth quirked, amused despite herself. “That’s a lot of stuff.” Peter flushed, fists curling tight in his pockets. She studied him for a long moment, then gestured to the counter stool. “Sit down, kid. What’s your name?" 

 

“Peter.”

 

“Well, Peter, I’m Mrs. Delgado. This is my place.” She looked around the empty café, sighing. “It’s not much, but it used to be a little more lively than this. You ever worked in food before?”

 

Peter hesitated. “Uh… not really. But I learn fast.”

 

Something softened in her face. She nodded slowly. “You’re still in school?” she asked.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Her gaze flicked over him again, sharp but kind. “You’re too young to be running yourself ragged.”

 

Peter’s throat went tight. He forced a smile. “I can do it.”

 

Mrs. Delgado sighed, but finally closed her ledger with a snap. “Alright. Two nights a week to start. See if you can manage it. Minimum wage plus tips. And-” she pointed a stern finger at him, “-no falling asleep on my counters. Understand?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Relief crashed through him so sudden it made him dizzy.

 

“Good. Be here Wednesday at five. Wear something you don’t mind spilling coffee on.”

 

Peter nodded, grinning weakly, even as his stomach twisted at the thought of squeezing shifts between patrol, school, and whatever Tony expected from him. But he couldn’t say no. Not when May’s voice from the other night still echoed in his head: We deserve something nice.

 

He wasn’t going to let her keep watering down milk to make it stretch.

 

—

 

Peter hesitated in the doorway of the lab like he was waiting for a guillotine to drop.

 

The hum of machines filled the air, all sleek and polished and impossibly advanced - and it used to excite Peter just to be in the room, but tonight his shoes felt nailed to the threshold. He half-expected Tony to glance up from his workstation, take one look at him, and tell him to get lost. Not worth it, kid. Go play somewhere else.

 

Instead, Tony just waved a distracted hand, eyes still on a schematic projected above the workbench. “Shut the door before you let all the AC out, Underoos. C’mon in.”

 

Peter blinked. That was it? No lecture, no glare, no sharp reminder about the fight. His stomach twisted with uncertainty, but he obeyed, slipping inside and letting the door hiss shut behind him. He slunk toward his usual stool like a stray cat who wasn’t sure if the food left out was really meant for him. He perched carefully on the edge, backpack still slung over his shoulder, just in case this turned out to be a mistake and he had to bolt.

 

Then he saw it.

 

Pizza.

 

A whole - three whole boxes of it, grease-stained and steaming faintly, balanced right there on the table next to his seat. Not some untouched prop, either - Tony had clearly gotten into it already, one or two slices missing. But there were plenty left, still warm, the smell making Peter’s stomach twist and growl with humiliating urgency.

 

For a second, he couldn’t breathe.

 

He stared at the box like it might vanish if he reached for it, like the universe was playing some cruel trick. His throat burned, eyes prickling, and he had to swallow thickly just to keep it together.

 

Tony didn’t even look up, just kept fiddling with a holographic adjustment on the suit’s web-shooters. “What are you waiting for? Go on, take one. Plain cheese isn’t here for me.”

 

Peter’s hand twitched. He reached slowly, carefully, like the cardboard might bite him. When his fingers brushed the warm crust of a slice, his chest squeezed so hard it almost hurt.

 

He pulled it close, holding it too tightly, and ducked his head as he bit in. The salt and grease and warmth nearly undid him. It was stupid, it was just pizza, but it felt like a peace offering, like a confirmation that maybe Tony didn’t hate him after all.

 

Maybe Peter could fix this.

 

Tony carried on like nothing had happened, voice casual as he pointed at the hologram. “So. I’ve been tweaking the calibration on these new shooters. You’re burning through too much web fluid on high-output settings. That’s great if you’re trying to glue down a car or something, but for your average mugger? Waste of resources. I want you to test the dispersion ratios tonight.”

 

Peter’s jaw worked around another bite, too full of food and relief to answer right away. He nodded quickly, forcing himself to swallow before he croaked, “Yeah. Okay.”

 

“Good. And don’t just say okay. I want your notes. Actual notes. Not scribbles in the margins like last time.” Tony flicked a look at him then. “Got it?”

 

Peter nodded again. The corner of Tony’s mouth tugged, just a little.

 

It was enough.

 

The tension in Peter’s shoulders started to ease, millimeter by millimeter. He chewed more slowly, his stomach finally unclenching as he filled it with greasy warmth. If he didn’t think too hard, if he didn’t let his brain circle back to the fight at school, or the bills at home, or the gnawing exhaustion in his bones, then - then it was like things hadn’t gone wrong at all.

 

He swallowed the last bite of crust and leaned back on the stool, licking his fingers quickly before dragging a notebook out of his bag. Tony muttered to himself as he adjusted the hologram, half of it jargon Peter only half-understood, but he tried to keep up anyway.

 

His eyelids drooped.

 

He blinked hard, straightening. Focus. Don’t be rude. Don’t look like a lazy kid who can’t even keep his eyes open.

 

But the pizza sat heavy in his stomach, his body dragging him down like sandbags tied to his limbs. The pen slowed in his hand, his head tipping forward until his chin brushed his chest. The sound of Tony’s voice blurred into a low hum. Peter jerked upright again, blinking rapidly, heat crawling up his neck. Had Tony noticed? He glanced over quickly- 

 

Tony was still tinkering, eyes fixed on the projection, brow furrowed in concentration. He hadn’t said a word. Peter exhaled shakily, rubbing his temple. He tried to refocus, tried to pin his attention back on the schematics, but the numbers swam. His hand slackened on the notebook. His eyes burned. And then, slowly, irresistibly, he dozed. Head lolling forward, body sagging into the stool, the pen slipping from his fingers to clatter softly against the desk.

 

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, his body stopped fighting itself. The lab hummed around him, safe and warm, the scent of pizza still in the air.

 

He let go.

 

—

 

Peter woke to warmth pressed against his shoulder.

 

It took him a second to surface, his brain sluggish and the world blurring at the edges. The lab’s lights buzzed too bright for his sleep-heavy eyes. His body tensed before he even knew why, some deep-rooted instinct flaring as a weight on his shoulder tightened its grip, steady, familiar- 

 

And Peter’s heart jackknifed.

 

In a sick flash, he was back in the hallway at school. Hands grabbing at his shirt, at his waist. Fingers curling, squeezing, pawing like he was an object and laughter ringing in his ears. His throat clamped tight.

 

He startled violently, nearly toppling off the stool. His notebook skidded to the floor, his body recoiling as he jerked back from the touch. Breath caught sharp in his lungs, panic spiking before he even registered the face in front of him.

 

“Hey, hey,” Tony’s voice broke through, low and careful. His hands lifted instantly, palms up. “Easy, Underoos. Just me. Sorry - didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

Peter froze, chest heaving, until the world sank back in. The sterile smell of ozone and solder, the pizza box still sitting open on the bench. Not school. Just Mr. Stark.

 

Shame flushed hot across his skin. He pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, scrubbing away the sting there, forcing a shaky breath in. His throat felt raw when he croaked, “Yeah. No, I - it’s okay. I just - didn’t hear you.”

 

Tony stayed where he was, leaning a hip against the workbench, hands still loose and harmless at his sides. His expression softened in a way that made Peter’s gut twist with shame. “Sorry, kiddo,” he said quietly, gentler than usual. “Should’ve known better. You were out cold. That’s on me.”

 

Peter shook his head too quickly, and his pulse still stuttered unevenly in his throat. He hated that Tony had seen that, and he hated even more that he’d reacted like some scared little kid.

 

Tony didn’t say anything else. Instead, he just glanced at the wall clock, then back at Peter. “I lost track of time. Your aunt’s gonna murder me if I don’t send you home. But-” his eyes flicked over Peter’s face, lingering on the shadows under his eyes, “-maybe lighten up on the patrols, okay? You’re looking a little tired.”

 

It was almost funny. A little tired. Like Peter wasn’t already falling asleep in class, barely holding it together on rooftops. He forced a weak half-smile anyway, trying to make it look normal. “Yeah. I’ll, uh. I’ll try.”

 

He pushed up from the stool, legs stiff, shoulders hunched. He stuffed his notebook into his bag without meeting Tony’s eyes.

 

The pizza box sat open on the bench, still holding two lonely slices. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it again. If he looked at it too long, his gut twisted, something ugly and desperate curling up behind his ribs.

 

So he left it there.

 

He murmured a quick goodnight and slipped out before Tony could say anything else, the lab door hissing shut behind him.

 

His stomach growled, sharp and empty, but the thought of food made him feel sick. He kept thinking about Tony’s face when he’d startled awake - the way Tony’s hands had lifted, calm, careful, like Peter was some skittish animal he didn’t want to spook.

 

The worst part was that it worked. That the panic had ebbed, just a little, because Tony had been so calm. Peter hated needing that.

 

He pressed a hand to his gut, willing it quiet, and tried not to think about the pizza box he’d left behind.

 

—

 

The café was tiny, wedged between a laundromat and a boarded-up bookstore. By day, it was steady with commuters and students, the kind of place where people lingered too long over a single latte. By night, it was quiet. The perfect spot for Peter to hide behind the counter and keep busy.

 

Mrs. Delgado taught him how to work the machines, how to sweep the floor just so, how to prep muffins and bagels for the morning rush on the weekend. She moved slowly, her joints a little stiff, but her instructions were clear.

 

She reminded him of May so much it hurt.  

 

“You’ll burn out, honey,” she told him one Friday, handing him a plate with the leftover turkey sandwich nobody had bought. “You’re skin and bones already.”

 

Peter blushed, muttering thanks, and ate the sandwich in three bites.

 

Leftovers became a pattern. Whatever didn’t sell, Mrs. Delgado boxed up and pressed into his hands at the end of the night. Bagels, muffins, sandwiches. Once, even a slice of cheesecake. Peter carried it all home like treasure, storing half in the fridge and sneaking the rest into May’s lunch bag.

 

It helped. A little.

 

But not enough.

 

—

 

Weeknights blurred together.

 

School, then the café (if it wasn't a lab night), then patrol, then collapsing into bed past midnight with aching feet and a half-finished chemistry assignment mocking him from the desk. He tried to keep weekends free for homework and catching up on the city, but even that slipped - patrols ran long, essays stacked up, and May’s worry lines deepened when she caught him nodding off over dinner.

 

And still, the numbers didn’t add up.

 

Rent was too high. Bills piled up. May was juggling shifts and coming home dead on her feet. Even with Peter’s paychecks tucked secretly into the drawer, it wasn’t enough.

 

He didn't know why it wasn't enough, because he'd been bringing more money home than before. Now, Peter lay awake most nights, torchlight beam on the ceiling, calculating over and over until the math blurred. He could pick up more shifts. He could cut patrol shorter. He could-

 

But none of it fixed the hollow pit in his chest, the gnawing truth that he was always too late, too small, too broke. That no matter how many cups of coffee he poured, or how many nights he bled into the city, it was never going to be enough.

 

Peter told himself he could handle it.

 

That was the lie he clung to, the one that got him out of bed every morning even when his limbs felt weighted down with concrete and his brain buzzed like static. He could handle it. He always had.

 

It started small.

 

He dozed off in chemistry, head jerking forward when his pencil skated off the page. The sound of snickering nearby jolted him upright, but the shame stuck like gum on his ribs. Ned nudged his arm under the desk, trying to cover for him when Mr. Harrington’s voice had rose a little bit like Peter couldn't hear him, but Peter barely managed to scrawl half-legible notes before his eyes dragged shut again.

 

By lunch, his head ached from the effort of sitting upright. The cafeteria felt too loud, too bright. Every laugh, every clatter of trays scraped against his nerves. He sat with Ned and MJ, chewing mechanically on a bagel Mrs. Delgado had slipped him the night before, but he could barely track the conversation. His eyes kept darting toward the exit, toward escape.

 

He just wanted to go back to bed and sleep.

 

—

 

Flash spotted him before Peter even noticed he was there.

 

Which was unusual. Parker was normally hyper-alert and always clocking the room like he thought someone was about to jump him. And recently he’d been avoiding Flash like he was carrying the plague, so to actually catch Peter off guard, even for a second, felt… wrong.  

 

Peter was moving stiffly through the hallway, weaving between kids with a weird half-hunch, one hand braced low against his stomach like he was holding himself together. His other hand fumbled with the lock on his locker, movements jerky, distracted.

 

Flash slowed his pace automatically, hanging back a few steps. The guy looked wrecked. Not just “didn’t get his morning coffee” wrecked, but the kind of wrecked where you started wondering if maybe you should call a medic.

 

The urge to say something prickled under Flash’s skin.  

 

It wasn’t like he and Parker were friends. They weren’t. They hadn’t ever really been, but for a while things had been… kind of nice, not that he’d ever say it out loud. But ever since the fight - and the principal’s office, and Stark swooping in like some controlling psycho - Flash hadn’t been able to shake the image of Peter flinching, of how small he’d looked.

 

And now, seeing Parker like this, tired and limping made Flash’s stomach twist in ways he really didn’t like.

 

So he forced himself forward.

 

“Hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. Not too sharp, not too soft. Just… normal.

 

Parker didn’t even glance up. He kept his eyes locked on the inside of his locker, like maybe if he stared hard enough, Flash would dissolve into mist.

 

Flash licked his lips, shifted his weight. Tried again. “Uh. Where’s Leeds? Isn’t he usually-”

 

Peter slammed a textbook into his bag harder than necessary. 

 

“Sick.” His voice was short, flat, like he was already running out of patience.

 

Flash winced. Okay. Rough start. “Right. And MJ?”

 

“Decathlon meeting,” Peter muttered. Still not looking at him.

 

So Parker was alone. Flash felt the weirdest flicker of guilt, like he’d timed this on purpose, like he’d swooped in knowing the guy didn’t have a shield today. Which wasn’t the case, but the thought still burned.

 

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Listen,” he said, quieter this time. “About… everything. I-”

 

Peter’s locker door slammed shut with a metallic clang. He didn’t walk away, not yet, but his shoulders went rigid like he was bracing for a punch. Flash swallowed. God, this is harder than I thought. He’d been rehearsing this in his head for days, and it still felt like trying to shove a sentence out through a brick wall.

 

“I never meant for all of that to get out about you,” Flash forced out, words tumbling awkwardly. “I’m really sorry. For… all of it. Seriously.”

 

There. He’d said it. It felt raw and strange leaving his mouth - like a confession, almost.

 

Peter’s jaw worked for a second. His hands tightened around the straps of his bag, knuckles pale. Finally, he said, “That doesn’t fix anything.” Flash’s stomach sank, before Peter continued, “But… thank you for the actual apology this time.”

 

The words weren’t forgiving. Not exactly. But they weren’t a “go to hell,” either. Flash latched onto that tiny sliver of not-hatred.

 

He reached into his pocket before he could lose his nerve. The vending machine can was cold against his fingers. He’d bought it that morning on a half-baked impulse, the thought being - hey, peace offering, people like drinks, right?

 

He held it out awkwardly. “Here. Got this for you.”

 

Peter blinked at it. Then at him. “I can’t drink caffeine,” he said after a beat, tone flat. “I’m allergic. But… thanks for the thought.”

 

Flash froze, can still hovering stupidly in midair. “Oh,” he said. His ears burned. “Right. Uh. Didn’t know that.” He shoved it back into his pocket before it could humiliate him further.

 

Peter sighed. Not mean, not mocking - just… tired. Bone-deep tired. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder and turned to go, wincing a little with the movement. Flash saw the hitch and the way Peter’s body tightened around the pain and his gut clenched. His whole body pulled taut, his mouth twisting as he sucked in a sharp breath.  

 

And Flash knew that look. He’d seen it in football practice a hundred times. That split-second mask of shit, that hurts more than it should.

 

Only Peter wasn’t on the team. And he wasn’t supposed to be getting hurt at all.

 

“Wait-” The word shot out of him before he’d decided what to say with it. Peter half-turned, brows drawn tight, expression already annoyed. Flash swallowed, pushed on. “You… you got hurt again or something, didn’t you?”

 

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

 

Peter’s mouth parted, then closed again. His eyes flicked sideways, anywhere but at Flash. That tiny hesitation was all the confirmation Flash needed. His stomach dropped. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “You’re actually gonna get yourself killed. You need to quit - whatever this is. Whoever you’re working for. Just… quit.”

 

Peter’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “No.” One syllable, hard as a slammed door.

 

Flash blinked, thrown. He’d expected denial, some sarcastic brush-off, maybe even another hit to the gut for daring to mention it. But instead, there was just a flat refusal. Tired, and resigned. His grip on his books tightened. He looked cornered, like an animal about to bite.

 

Flash was never good at stopping while he was ahead. “If you don’t quit, I’m gonna tell the school counselor. I mean it. Somebody’s gotta step in before you end up in the morgue.”

 

That got him the reaction he’d been dreading.

 

Peter’s whole body went rigid. His voice was low and sharp when he spat, “If you do that, we’re all gonna get into trouble.”

 

“All?” Flash echoed before he could stop himself. But Peter didn’t elaborate, but his mouth clicked shut as he glared.

 

Flash’s mouth went dry. He opened his mouth to press for answers, but then Peter’s eyes burned into him, and he couldn’t.

 

He winced instead, chest tight. “Okay,” he said, softer, almost tripping over the word. “Okay. I’m - sorry. I didn’t…” He trailed off, useless, hands hanging open, but Peter had already turned away. Already stalking off, shoulders stiff, and Flash stood there in the middle of the hallway, feeling like he’d just shoved both feet directly into his mouth and then swallowed the shoes whole.

 

—

 

The rest of the day was a slow, uncomfortable crawl through silence. Flash didn’t speak to him between classes, didn’t even nudge his desk when passing, and Peter found himself hating how much he noticed it. Normally, he would have been grateful for the quiet; but now everything just felt… empty.

 

By the time the final bell rang, Peter’s headache had bloomed into something dull and insistent behind his eyes. His body was still a little wrecked from patrol - every step made his abdomen twinge in reminder - but he pushed himself forward anyway, hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets.

 

He… really needed more money.

 

He found Flash already by his locker, scrolling on his phone, earbuds dangling loose. For a second, Peter considered just leaving him there - but then the thought of walking into an empty apartment crept in - quiet walls, the faint hum of the fridge, the ache of being alone with his thoughts, and that was somehow worse.

 

Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, cleared his throat, and tried for casual. “Do you… still want to do a study night…?” He trailed off, the imp lication hanging in the air.

 

Flash didn’t look up right away. When he did, his eyebrows shot up. “I - what?”

 

Peter blinked, then glanced away. “I… if you wanted to.”

 

“No, I-” Flash tried again. “It’s just - you’re talking to me again?”

 

Peter rolled his eyes, though it was more defensive than annoyed. “It’s not like that. I just - look, you can’t tell anyone. Not - I know people already, like… think that I-” His voice had gone a little quieter, almost pleading. “I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier. Sorry. Do you… not want help today? I can go, it’s fine, I just…” He scratched at the inside of his sleeve, eyes darting away. “I dunno. May’s working late and I just didn’t want to be home alone again.”

 

There was a pause, and Peter could practically hear the moment Flash’s expression softened.  

 

 “Okay,” Flash said finally, closing his locker. “Let’s go.”

 

—

 

He didn't even really remember the car ride over, either - but now he was slouched on Flash’s couch with a textbook in his lap, staring at equations that blurred together the longer he blinked. His pen hovered over the page, tapping quietly, and Flash sat next to him, pretending to follow along, but Peter could feel his eyes drifting - first to the book, then to him.

 

“Are you even awake right now?” Flash asked finally.

 

Peter’s head jerked. “What? Yeah, I’m…” He blinked, then glanced down at the textbook, trying to remember where he’d gotten up to. “…awake enough.”

 

Flash didn’t look impressed.

 

A minute later, he got up and disappeared into the kitchen. Peter stayed where he was, blinking heavily at the formulas. When Flash came back, he had food - takeout boxes balanced in one hand, water bottles in the other. He plopped them onto the coffee table.

 

“Eat,” Flash said, like it wasn’t a suggestion.

 

Peter wanted to argue, but the smell hit his stomach. He picked at the food slowly, twirling noodles around his fork. Peter’s appetite wavered in and out, but he made himself chew.  

 

He ended up leaning more and more against Flash as he reached over for the homework again, and started going through the answers row by row. It wasn't on purpose. It was just easier than holding himself upright when his eyelids kept drooping. His shoulder brushed Flash’s arm. Then he slumped a little closer, pen tapping at the problem Flash had scrawled into his notebook.

 

“See?” Peter murmured. “You… missed the negative sign. Right there.” His finger tapped the margin of the page in Flash’s lap.

 

Flash huffed like it was the stupidest mistake in the world. Peter hummed, almost asleep already, and eventually, the textbooks ended up abandoned on the table. The TV clicked on, some movie playing low in the background. Peter barely processed what it was. His head tipped sideways, resting against the back of the couch. There was a low, steady throbbing under the bandages under his shirt from yesterday’s shitty patrol, and he was too tired to move.

 

He really, really didn’t want to go back to an empty apartment.

 

He must’ve looked half-dead, because Flash shifted beside him and said, after a beat, “You can… you know, crash here. If you want.”

 

Peter blinked slowly. His first thought was that he’d misheard. “What?”

 

His brain lagged a second before catching up. Spend the night. The words didn’t quite register as a big deal. In his head, it wasn’t much different from dozing off on the couch during a late patrol debrief at the Tower - except here, no one was going to wake him up to shove a protein shake in his hand or make him change the bandages on his stomach.

 

“Spend the night,” Flash clarified, a little awkward. “You look like you’re gonna keel over anyway. I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

 

Peter should’ve said no. He should’ve insisted he’d go home and catch up on homework, maybe patrol if his ribs didn’t scream too much.  But the idea of dragging himself all the way back to Queens when every bone in his body felt like it was filled with lead… it made his mouth work before his brain could catch up.

 

“…Yeah. Okay," he said before he could think about it, the word half-swallowed in a yawn. He shifted slightly, wincing when his side pulled in protest. It was still sore enough that certain movements sent little sparks of pain through him, but he was too tired to hide the reaction.

 

Flash froze for a second, like he hadn’t expected him to agree. Then he nodded, pushing himself off the couch. “Cool. Uh - hang on.”

 

He came back a few minutes later with an armful of fabric - basketball shorts, a soft-looking t-shirt. “Here,” he said, setting them down on the arm of the couch like he wasn’t sure if Peter was going to bolt.

 

Peter blinked at them, slow to process. “Thanks.” 

 

The word came out scratchy. He picked them up and padded toward the bathroom, the tile cool under his socked feet. 

 

The hot shower was almost enough to knock him out standing. 

 

He leaned against the tile, breathing through the steam, his side throbbing where the half-healed stab wound sat under flimsy gauze. He peeled it back and frowned. Still inflamed, edges a little raw, but not oozing. Probably fine. He cleaned it as best he could with what Flash had in the cabinet, then tugged on the borrowed clothes.

 

By the time he emerged, hair damp and the hoodie hanging loosely off his frame, he felt even more drowsy. His stomach still twinged with every step, but the heat from the shower made it a little more bearable. He padded back into the living room, but Flash had migrated somewhere else, and after a moment Peter followed the sound of movement down the hall.

 

Flash’s room was… weirdly neat, at least for what Peter expected. Not spotless, but not the mess he’d imagined either. The bed was already stripped of an extra pillow and blanket, tossed in a heap gainst the far wall. Flash was standing there, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure how to play this.

 

“You can take the bed,” Flash said finally, jerking his chin toward it. “I’ll take the couch.”

 

Peter blinked at him, too tired to put up much of an argument. His head was still swimming, and honestly, he wasn’t in the mood to overthink the social logistics of bed versus couch. He shrugged, tugging at the hem of the oversized shirt before he sank onto the mattress with his hair still damp from the shower, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to count the imperfections in the paint.

 

“I don’t care,” he mumbled finally, voice low and rough around the edges. He didn’t bother turning his head toward Flash.

 

It was quiet for a beat, the hum of the heater filling the room. Then Flash settled next to him cautiously, and Peter blinked up at him blearily.

“Are you - are you sure it's okay?” Flash asked again. “I don’t, like - I can take a spare room. You don’t have to - if you’re uncomfortable or anything-”

 

“Flash,” he said, exhausted. “I don’t care.”

 

The room went quiet, and Flash shuffled up into the bed, too. The whole thing was much bigger than Peter’s shitty single bed at home - and it was warmer, too. Flash’s whole house was so, so much warmer. Peter’s eyelids slid a little further closed.

 

“What’s it like?”

 

Peter blinked at the ceiling, slow and deliberate. “What’s what like?”

 

“You know…” Flash shifted where he was lying, halfway sitting up against the wall. “Sex.”

 

Peter’s mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite irritation. He shrugged, small and tight. “I don’t know.”

 

That should’ve been the end of it. But Peter could feel his own body give him away - the slight curl of his fingers against the blanket, the same stupid twitch that always happened when he was bluffing. Flash wasn’t an idiot; he caught it.

 

“You do know,” Flash said, not mean, not teasing - just sure.

 

Peter kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His throat felt too tight. He could feel the heat still clinging to him from the shower, but it wasn’t comfort now - it was sticky, heavy, clinging to his skin.

 

He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to think about it. But something in him, maybe the fever that was making his head swim or the exhaustion that made everything feel far away, let it out anyway.

 

“It sucked,” he said. The words scraped on the way out, catching halfway in his throat.

 

There was no sound from Flash, not right away. Then a shift - the mattress dipping slightly beside him. A hand brushed his, hesitated, then slid into his palm and squeezed. Not hard, but it was there and firm and warm.

 

Peter stared at the ceiling for a long moment, letting the pressure of Flash’s hand sink in. It was stupid - Flash of all people - but it didn’t feel bad.

 

If anything, that made it worse.

 

He swallowed, looking toward the wall instead, and the silence settled back in between them. His head felt hot, the ache in his bones pressing down heavier now that he wasn’t moving. He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to go home.

 

The thought of walking into an empty apartment, with May working late and the dark pressing in around the walls, made something deep in his chest tighten. He didn’t want to be there - didn’t want to sit alone at the kitchen table with cold leftovers, didn’t want to stare at the TV until his eyes hurt, didn’t want to feel every creak of the building like it was reminding him there was no one else there.

 

No - this was better. Even if it was Flash. Even if it meant sleeping in a bed that wasn’t his, next to someone who asked too many questions.

 

He rolled over, pulled the covers over him, and squeezed his eyes shut.

 

—

 

Flash’s alarm went off with a jarring buzz that felt far too loud for the soft, cocoon-like quiet of his room.

 

He groaned, smacking at his phone until it stopped, and blinked up at the faint light creeping in through the blinds. The warmth beside him registered before anything else - a slow, even rhythm of breathing, the solid weight of another person curled close but not quite touching.

 

Peter.

 

For a moment, Flash just lay there, staring at the ceiling. He could feel the slight shift of the mattress with every rise and fall of Peter’s chest. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about before - how someone else’s breathing could be comforting - but there was something in it that made the air in the room feel heavier, warmer, almost reluctant to move.

 

He lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to convince himself to get up. School felt distant and unimportant in that moment. It wasn’t until he heard the alarm blaring a second time that he sighed, reached over to slap it off, and began to shift toward the edge of the bed.

 

He pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face, before leaning over a little to look at Peter. “Hey, Parker,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. He tugged the hoodie over his head and stepped closer. “Come on, man, I’ll drive you to school.”

 

Peter didn’t even twitch.

 

Flash frowned. He reached out, gave his shoulder a light nudge. The only answer he got was a small, pained sound, almost like a half-swallowed groan that made Flash freeze halfway into standing.

 

“...Peter?” His voice was quieter this time, more careful.

 

Peter was curled tightly on his side, arms drawn in, blanket tangled halfway down his legs. His expression was pinched even in sleep, and there was a dampness to his hairline that didn’t look like just sweat from being under the covers.

 

Flash hesitated only a second before reaching out, nudging his shoulder. “Hey. Parker. Come on, man, you gotta wake up if you want a ride to school.”

 

Still nothing. Peter shifted a fraction, like he’d heard something in the fog of sleep but couldn’t be bothered to fully process it. That tiny, sluggish movement made something unpleasant coil in Flash’s stomach.

 

He sighed and leaned over more, putting a hand on Peter’s arm and trying to coax him onto his back. “Alright, up you get-”

 

Peter resisted for a second, not in any real way, just deadweight stubbornness, before Flash managed to roll him over. That’s when he really got a look at him - eyes half-lidded and glassy, skin flushed in a way that didn’t look like a healthy warmth from sleep.

 

“Hey, Parker.” Flash’s tone shifted - less teasing, more serious now. He reached out and pressed his palm to Peter’s forehead, and immediately swore under his breath. He was burning up. His skin was pale, but flushed high across the cheeks, and his lips were dry. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and there was a faint, restless flicker under his closed eyes.

 

The unease in Flash’s stomach sank heavier. Fever wasn’t good, not with how beat-up Peter had looked the other day.

 

“Dude, you’re running a fever,” Flash muttered, not that Peter seemed to hear him.

 

He hesitated, then glanced toward Peter’s side. The side that he moved with carefully, and the one that made him wince.

 

“I’m checking your side,” Flash said quickly, already moving his hand toward Peter’s shirt before Peter could even process the words. He doubted he would.

 

Sure enough, Peter didn’t react - not even a token protest. His eyes were unfocused, somewhere far away, and that in itself scared Flash more than anything.

 

He took a quiet breath, steeled himself, and hooked his fingers under the hem of Peter’s shirt. When there was no protest - no movement at all, really - he lifted it just enough to expose the bandages wrapped snugly around his ribs. The sight underneath them made his jaw tighten. The skin was swollen, angry red around the edges of the wrapping, the kind of heat that radiated without even needing to touch. Infection. It was obvious, and it wasn’t small. 

 

Flash pressed his hand lightly against the skin just above the worst of it, just to confirm. The heat there made his stomach twist tighter.

 

Peter arched toward the touch without even seeming aware of it, a small unconscious lean into the contact like he was chasing the pressure in an almost unconscious arch into his hand before going still again. The motion was so unthinking, so bone-deep instinctive, that he snatched his hand back, guilt pricking sharp and fast. He wasn’t sure why it made his chest ache the way it did.

 

He forced his eyes away from the injuries, but not before they caught on the rest of it - the faint scatter of old scars, the bruises fading in uneven blotches, the thin, pale marks like ghosts of something that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

 

It left a weight in his chest.

 

Flash let the shirt fall back into place, tugging it down gently like he could hide all of it by covering it up. He sat there for a second, staring at Peter’s face, and tried not to think about what he’d just seen - but the image was already burned into his head, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“You taking anything for it? Any medication?” Flash asked, voice a little sharper than he meant. Peter didn’t react. Flash leaned forward again, hands braced against the mattress. “Hey. Hey, Peter. Hey, look at me, man.”

 

That got him a slow, unfocused blink. Bleary brown eyes, red-rimmed and half-lidded, turned vaguely in his direction.

 

“…Mr Stark?” Peter slurred, glancing up at him.

 

Every muscle in Flash’s body went tight. His stomach dropped. It was like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over his head. “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “No, it’s - it’s Flash. You’re at my place, remember? Peter, are you taking anything for your side? Did it get treated? Do you have any antibiotics?”

 

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Bag,” he murmured, the word dragging out through the thick, syrupy slog of fever. “I… haven’t been. Don’t need it. Healing’s good enough.”

 

“Fuuuck,” Flash muttered under his breath.

 

He got up, half tripping over his own feet in his hurry, and yanked Peter’s backpack over from where it had been dumped on the floor. He shoved things aside - textbooks, crumpled papers, a couple of protein bars - and found the pill bottle amidst the butterfly stitches he tried to ignore near the bottom.

 

“Okay, sit up,” Flash said, coming back to the bed.

 

Peter made a vague noise of protest but let Flash pull him upright. He was deadweight, head dropping forward until it bumped against Flash’s shoulder. The heat coming off him was insane - Flash could practically feel it through his T-shirt. He grabbed the water bottle off his desk, pressed it into Peter’s hand, and dropped a pill into his palm.

 

Peter took them without much argument, swallowing sluggishly before collapsing back down.

 

“Jesus, man,” Flash muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

 

Peter didn’t seem to be listening anymore. Instead, he shifted closer, curling into Flash’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His forehead pressed against Flash’s ribs, and his breathing evened out just enough that it almost looked like he was drifting. Flash froze, staring down at the top of Peter’s head, panic buzzing low in his chest.

 

“Okay, nope,” Flash said after a second, because the combination of fever, curling, and infected wound was setting off every alarm bell in his head. “I’m calling your aunt. Where’s your phone?”

 

Peter stirred instantly, his head lifting just a fraction. “No. No, don’t - she’s on shift.”

 

“I don’t care,” Flash started, but Peter was already shaking his head, sluggish and stubborn.

 

“No,” he repeated, slurring. “Don’t. Don’t bother her.”

 

Flash looked down at him, jaw tightening. “Dude. I need to call someone. You’re not okay.”

 

Peter blinked up at him, eyes glassy. “Call Mr. Stark.”

 

“No,” Flash said immediately, firmly. “I’m not - I’m not calling the person who hurt you, Peter. I’m not fucking-”

 

“He saved me,” Peter interrupted, his voice suddenly fierce in a way that didn’t match his limp body. “He’s so nice to me. He saved me, he saved me…”

 

Flash’s chest tightened. “He didn’t save you,” he snapped, his hand curling unconsciously where it was resting against Peter’s arm. The second Peter flinched, he let go, pulling back like he’d touched something fragile. “Sorry. But he’s hurting you, Peter. He’s not-”

 

“He’s so nice,” Peter said again, voice going soft, almost pleading. “Call Mr. Stark. Please, please, call Mr Stark…”

 

Flash just stared at him for a long moment. The sweat beading on Peter’s skin, the too-bright eyes, the way his voice kept catching - he was so far gone in fever that half the words probably weren’t even making it through the haze.

 

Peter’s lashes fluttered. His breathing slowed. His head lolled a little, body sagging as if whatever fight he’d had in him had burned out in seconds.

 

“Shit,” Flash breathed. “Fine. Fuck. Fine.”

 

He reached for Parker’s phone - his stupid fucking Starkphone.

 

Flash’s hands were shaking, and that pissed him off. He wasn’t supposed to be shaking - he was supposed to be the one in control here, the one who knew what to do when someone was hurt. He’d been doing fine, kind of, up until now. Getting Peter to take the pill. Making him drink water. Keeping him from passing out completely. But the second the thought actually landed - he needs more than I can give him - it was like his stomach dropped through the floor.

 

Peter was still slumped against him, warm in the way that wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t safe. Fever heat. Infection heat. The kind you read about in first aid pamphlets right before they start talking about sepsis.

 

He glanced down at Peter’s half-lidded eyes, caught just enough awareness there to try. “Hey,” Flash said, giving his shoulder a careful shake. “Hey, what’s your phone password? I need to get your contacts.”

 

Peter’s brow furrowed. His lips moved, but whatever came out was mumbled and slurred, half-lost in the rasp of his breathing.

 

“C’mon, man,” Flash pressed. “Just - just tell me the code. Please.”

 

It took longer than it should have. He had to repeat the request, had to keep his tone steady even when Peter’s eyes started closing again. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Peter muttered the numbers so quietly Flash almost missed them, but muscle memory had him yanking the phone from Peter’s bag and punching in the code before it could slip away from his head.

 

He scrolled through contacts. Didn’t bother with his aunt, not when Peter had been so adamant earlier. He wasn’t happy about it, but he tapped the one name Peter had actually asked for.

 

The phone rang twice.

 

Then- 

 

“Hey, kiddo,” came the voice, casual, like the guy was calling from the front seat of a sports car instead of wherever the hell billionaires hung out. And just hearing it, Flash’s mouth went dry. Holy shit. That’s Tony Stark. Even he wasn’t immune to that flicker of disbelief, that hit of oh my god that’s Iron Man talking to me through a phone.

 

“You doing okay?” Stark kept going, all smooth confidence. “I was thinking pizza for tonight, and then we can mess around with some of the stuff I got my hands on for your-”

 

“Peter’s hurt,” Flash cut in, because he did not want to hear the rest of that sentence. His voice came out sharper than intended, but maybe that was good - because the silence on the other end was immediate, a cold, clipped kind of pause. “But I’m sure you knew that already.”

 

“Who’s this?” Stark demanded, tone shifting fast, hard-edged now. “Where’s Peter? What do you mean he’s hurt?”

 

Flash’s grip on the phone tightened. “A friend,” he bit out. He didn’t care if it sounded hostile; he wanted it to. “Peter’s sick. That injury on his side is infected, I think. He’s - he’s got a fever, and he’s not responding properly, and he told me to call you, so-”

 

“FRI, trace the call,” Stark’s voice cut across his own, like Flash’s words were just background noise. Then, to him: “Okay. Just - give me five minutes, I’ll be over there.”

 

The line went dead.

 

Flash stared at the phone for a beat, pulse still hammering, before shoving it onto the bedside table beside him. He turned back to Peter, who had started slumping again, head dipping toward his chest.

 

“Hey,” Flash muttered, shifting quickly, an arm wrapping around Peter’s back to brace him upright. He tried to be gentle, but his own panic made his hands firmer than he meant. “C’mon, sit up. Just for a bit, okay? Don’t fall asleep yet.”

 

Peter made a sound that might’ve been agreement, or just exhaustion, but at least he leaned into the support, his forehead brushing Flash’s shoulder.

 

Flash swallowed hard, his mind still reeling. Stark was coming. Five minutes. And that was either going to fix everything, or it was going to make things a hell of a lot worse.

 

—

 

Flash didn’t know what he’d been expecting when Stark showed up, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

 

He’d been torn between pacing around his room and keeping at least two fingers against Peter’s wrist to make sure he didn’t fucking flatline or something. His head lolled forward like it was too heavy for his neck, and every few minutes Flash would crouch down, murmur his name, give his shoulder a shake - half-hoping, half-dreading a response. He’d tried coaxing him to drink water earlier, but Peter had only blinked at him in this slow, glassy way before his eyes drifted shut again.

 

Flash didn’t even like touching people, but his hand had stayed hooked awkwardly against Peter’s knee just to make sure he was still warm - still there.

 

The knock at the door wasn’t so much a knock as a sharp, impatient rap-rap-rap, followed immediately by the rattle of the handle.

 

Flash’s hackles went up, but he ducked down to the front door anyway.

 

Before he could even reach it, the door swung open, and Tony Stark stepped inside like he owned the place. No hesitation. No greeting. Just scanning the room with those hyper-focused eyes like he was walking into a boardroom, except instead of suits and conference tables there was a half-asleep, fever-sweating teenager in mismatched pajamas.

 

“Where is he?” Stark’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough.

 

Flash felt his spine lock up. “You could say hi first.”

 

“Hi. Where is he?” Stark didn’t even slow down, already striding forward.

 

Flash’s instinct was to plant himself in the way - but he led the man to his room, not because Stark asked, but because Peter needed something, and Flash sure as hell didn’t know what else to give.

 

“Hey, kid,” Stark said, kneeling down like it was second nature, his tone dropping into something gentler, warmer - like they’d done this a hundred times before. “You’re not looking so hot, you know that?”

 

Flash’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. Of course Stark was soft with him. Of course he had that practiced voice, like he’d said those exact words to Peter before, because maybe he had. Maybe he’d hurt Peter so bad before that this had already happened. Maybe that’s why Peter was so used to it.

 

Peter didn’t answer, but he turned his head toward Stark’s voice like it was a reflex.

 

“Let’s see,” Stark murmured, already reaching for the hem of Peter’s shirt.

 

“Hey,” Flash snapped, but it came out sharper than he meant.

 

“I’m not - look, I’m checking the injury, alright?” Stark said without looking at him. The cotton bunched up, and Flash’s stomach turned when he saw the mess underneath - angry, inflamed skin, a faint but nasty yellow at the edges. He bit his lip so hard he tasted iron. Stark frowned, his eyes narrowing. “FRI, scan him.”

 

A soft, synthetic chime answered from nowhere. Flash didn’t understand the readout, but whatever Stark heard made his expression harden in a way that was… unpleasant.

 

“That’s not great,” Stark muttered. Then, more decisively: “I’m taking him.”

 

Flash didn’t like the way Stark said it - like it was already a done deal, like he was swooping in and reclaiming property. “Wait-”

 

Stark was already sliding an arm behind Peter’s shoulders, the other hooking under his knees and lifting him in one smooth motion that made Peter’s head loll against his shoulder.

 

Flash’s stomach twisted. Peter actually leaned into the touch, slow and instinctive, like it was familiar. Like this was safe for him.  

 

The words tumbled out before Flash could stop them, flat and deliberate. “I know what happened. I know how he got hurt.”

 

That made Stark pause, just a fraction, his eyes flicking toward Flash with something sharp in them. “Fuck,” Stark muttered, his voice low, more to himself than anyone else. “Kid’s gotta learn to stop running his mouth.” He exhaled, annoyed, then jabbed a finger in Flash’s direction. “Just - not a word of this to anyone, you hear me?”

 

Flash’s jaw tightened. Not a word of this? Like it was some dirty secret Stark needed to keep buried. Like Peter was a mess he had to protect for the wrong reasons. The suspicion in Flash’s chest turned molten, burning through the sickness already creeping at the edges of his body.

 

“I’m serious,” Tony said, levelling him with a look, Peter still tucked against him. “You tell anyone what he told you, and I’ll bury you under so many NDAs it won’t even be funny.”

 

Flash straightened, not caring that he was barefoot in rumpled pajamas, hair sticking up. “You better make sure he’s okay,” he said, and his voice came out lower than he expected - more like a warning than a plea. He meant it.

 

Stark’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t bristle. “I’m working on it.” The words were curt, confident, but not dismissive - not exactly. Then he tipped his head toward the doorway. “Now move, so I can fix the kid’s damn mess.”

 

Flash stayed planted for half a second too long, but Peter shifted in Stark’s arms, a small sound escaping him, and that was enough to make Flash step aside. Stark didn’t wait for anything else - just walked out, boots heavy on the wooden floors, Peter’s slight weight cradled against him like it meant something.

 

And then they were gone.

 

The silence they left behind was deafening. Flash stood there in the open doorway, the cool air from the hallway brushing over his bare feet, feeling the rush of adrenaline start to crash into exhaustion. His stomach churned. His head felt hot. 

 

He shut the door slowly, the latch clicking into place far too loud in the quiet room. His pajamas clung to him uncomfortably, the fabric too warm, his skin damp. He swallowed, but the tightness in his throat didn’t go away.

 

His room looked wrong without Peter in it. The messy pile of blankets on the bed felt wrong. Flash sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, pressing his palms against his eyes until colors bloomed behind them. The taste of blood was on his tongue, and not for the first time since this whole thing started, Flash felt sick. Not the kind you could shake off. The kind that crawled under your skin and stayed there.

 

Fuck.

 

Notes:

tws for infected injuries, mentioned sa (nothing too graphic, but like..... peter getting groped and shit which is icky), also mentioned prostitution again bc flash is 99% convinced peter is being abused by tony despite being completely wrong

um. oof.

Chapter 8: drugs

Summary:

Peter drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

Notes:

im back <3 making everything worse before i make it better <333

but also i literally cant say how much ur comments literally feed me. ive only got a couple more days of my prac so hopefully i have more time coming up soon!! things are gonna get 1000x worse for peter in the next 1-2 chapters and im sorry not sorry for that >:)

this is a long one so strap in besties

Peter drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

 

His head heavy against the pillow, body too soft and strange to belong to him. It felt like he was floating. The air smelled sharp - clean and sterile, tinged faintly with antiseptic. The sound of hushed voices brushed against the edges of his fog.

 

“…still a little inflamed. He’s lucky he came in when he did,” someone was saying. A woman. Calm, professional, with a tone that made him think of nurses who’d patched him up before. 

 

Oh. Maybe Dr. Cho?

 

Another voice replied, lower, frayed around the edges, almost like he hadn’t slept. Mr. Stark. “Lucky, sure. You call sepsis luck?”

 

Peter groaned softly, shifting against the sheets. His side ached in that dull, buried way, like the pain had been numbed under layers of cotton but still pulsed faintly to remind him it was there. His body felt wrapped in glass wool. Slow, and muffled.

 

When he blinked his eyes open, the Medbay lights glared down at him. He squinted, lashes fluttering, trying to make sense of world - ceiling, white walls. Monitors beeping somewhere steady and irritating. He turned his head, sluggishly, and caught sight of them - Dr. Cho, standing by a rolling tray of instruments, and Mr. Stark, arms folded, shoulders tight, like he wanted to punch something but didn’t know what.

 

The movement must have drawn attention, because Mr. Stark’s gaze flicked immediately to him. “Hey, hey - look who’s awake.”  

 

Dr. Cho frowned. “He should still be asleep. I’ll give him something else.”

 

Peter made a small sound in his throat, something like protest but too tangled up to really form words. No, he didn’t want to go under again. It was too dark there. Too empty.  

 

Mr. Stark moved closer, hesitating, then reached out once he sank into the chair by his bedside. His hand settled carefully on Peter’s, and he could feel the warmth through all the fuzz in his veins. “Easy, kiddo. You feel okay?”

 

Peter blinked at him. His vision was smudged at the edges, like someone had dragged watercolors across a canvas, but he could still make out the worried crease between Mr. Stark’s eyebrows. He tried to speak. The words stuck, sticky and slow, before slipping free.

 

“My head’s…” He swallowed, tongue heavy. “Full of cotton.”

 

Mr. Stark huffed out a laugh, but it was the kind that hurt to hear, brittle and tight. “Yeah, that’s the drugs talking.”

 

Peter frowned faintly, struggling to keep the thought in place long enough to let it out. “What’re you… doing here?”

 

That made Mr. Stark wince, and Peter frowned because he didn’t know why it had upset him. “What am I doing here?” Tony echoed. “You scared the hell out of me, that’s what. You’ve got a side wound that nearly went septic.”

 

Peter’s eyelids drooped. He wanted to explain, but the cotton in his skull made it impossible. He sighed instead, letting his head tip back into the pillow. “I feel great,” he murmured dreamily. “Don’t… don’t ever wanna move from here. So easy not to think.”

 

Mr. Stark’s hand tightened minutely on his. “Yeah,” he said softly. Too soft. “You’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, huh?”

 

Peter groaned, long and miserable. “All I can do is think. It’s terrible.”

 

There was a silence, heavy, like the air thickened around the bed. Peter could feel it, even in his haze, the weight of Mr. Stark’s gaze on him. The cotton in his head didn’t hide the guilt that came prickling anyway, though he couldn’t summon the strength to fight it. He thought vaguely of how much easier everything was right now, wrapped in warmth and medication, compared to the gnawing hollowness that had permanently settled underneath his ribcage.

 

Mr. Stark didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was hesitant. “Kid… how long’s this been going on?”

 

Peter blinked slowly at him. “Like what?” The words came out thick, confused.

 

“Like-” Mr. Stark cut himself off, pressing a hand over his mouth for a second. He looked away, then back. “You’re not eating, are you?”

 

That didn’t make sense. Peter squinted, tried to focus. “I do,” he said stubbornly, though his voice slurred. “When I can. It’s fine.”

 

But Mr. Stark’s expression only crumpled more. “You’re skin and bones, Peter. You’re not - your friend called me because he couldn’t wake you up this morning.”

 

Peter let out a miserable noise, because oh, god, Flash. He was never going to let Peter live this down, now.

 

Mr. Stark continued, unbothered. “You have injuries you brush off, and now - now you’re saying the only relief you get is when you’re so drugged you don’t have to think? That doesn’t sound fine, Underoos.”

 

Peter wanted to argue. He wanted to sit up and wave his arms and explain that it wasn’t like that, that food just cost money and sometimes he didn’t have enough and patrols made him miss meals, but the words tangled in his throat. What came out instead was another sigh. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, eyes sliding shut again. “Can I go back to sleep, now?”

 

The way Mr. Stark’s face went still made Peter’s stomach twist.

 

“Of course it matters,” he said quietly, but firmly. His thumb brushed over Peter’s knuckles, careful, deliberate, before it pulled away. “...You matter, kid. And I know - I know I don’t say that a lot, but this isn’t looking good, kid.”

 

Peter closed his eyes. He wanted to tell him he knew that, that he didn’t mean it like that, but it was already slipping away from him. The room tilted, softer now. He caught a glimpse of Dr. Cho adjusting his IV line, murmuring something he couldn’t catch.

 

Mr. Stark’s voice wavered at the edge of hearing, too far away and too close all at once. “…we’ll figure this out, okay? Just - you focus on feeling better for now.”

 

And then the cotton swallowed him whole again.

 

— 

 

Peter woke to the steady beep of a monitor and the faint antiseptic smell of the Medbay. His eyes felt heavy, like they were weighted down by sand, and when he blinked them open the room swam in soft, sterile light. For a long moment, he didn’t move; he didn’t even breathe more than shallowly - he just lay there waiting for the fog in his head to clear.

 

Eventually, his throat worked around a rasped, “FRIDAY?”

 

The ceiling speakers answered immediately, warm and crisp. “Good afternoon, Peter. You’re in the Medbay. I’ve alerted Mr. Stark that you’re awake and he is currently on his way down.”

 

Peter groaned quietly, dragging a hand over his face. Everything felt sluggish and wrong, like his body had been unplugged from itself. He wanted to push upright, but the tug in his side reminded him why he was here. 

 

Medbay. 

 

Right. He was in the Tower medbay.

 

Still, instinct had him reaching for his phone. He fumbled a hand down toward the pocket of his jeans - only to freeze, stomach swooping, when his fingers met soft cotton instead of denim.

 

A medical gown.

 

Shit.

 

Shit shit shit.

 

His pulse kicked, suddenly awake. Where was his phone? His backpack? His clothes? Fuck, was his mask in his bag? Did Flash have his suit? Panic pressed cold against his ribs as he tried to shift, but the ache at his side made him hiss and slump back down.

 

The door opened.

 

Peter jerked his gaze up in time to see Tony step inside, shoulders set but eyes scanning him like he expected Peter to disappear if he blinked. He walked with a kind of hesitant weariness, like every step toward the bed was deliberate and cautious, and it kind of reminded Peter of the way he’d approach an alleycat or some other stray.

 

Peter shoved himself upright, ignoring the flare of pain that ran through his ribs. He schooled his face quickly, hiding the wince, like Tony hadn’t already seen him injured and delerious from fever and drugs.

 

“Hey,” Tony said softly, stopping at the bedside. He lowered himself into the chair with careful movements, as though testing whether Peter would spook. “How’re you feeling, kid?”

 

Peter rubbed his face, scrubbed at tired eyes, and gave the most honest answer he could manage. “Tired.” His voice cracked, low and scratchy. He glanced down at his hands, then back up. “How’d I get here?”

 

“Your friend called,” Tony said. His tone was too even, which meant something was simmering under it. “You… scared the shit outta me, kid. You weren’t responding. Cho says you would’ve gone septic if we didn’t get you when we did, because you’ve clearly been fucking with the suit again if I’m not getting alerts for dirty sketchy back alley stab wounds, and-”

 

“I - what?” Peter cut him off, words tumbling in a rush. He straightened a little too fast, and pain shot hot across his side. “I - oh my god.” His stomach sank. His face burned. He buried both hands over his face. “Flash is never gonna let me live this down,” he moaned into his palms.

 

“About that,” Tony muttered. He dragged a hand down his own face, exhaling through his nose.

 

Peter peeked warily at him between his fingers. “…what about that?”

 

“You told him?” Tony asked, careful, searching.

 

Peter dropped his hands. “What?”

 

“You told him about Spider-Man.” Tony gestured vaguely between them, as though that explained everything. His eyes narrowed. “Look - I get you’ve got Ned, and I know, and Cho knows too, but this isn’t - you shouldn’t make a habit of-”

 

“I didn’t tell him,” Peter blurted. The words fell over each other, quick and desperate. He shook his head fast. “He - I - he thinks he knows what’s going on, but he doesn’t, and he’s dumb. He’s trying, but - no. Don’t worry about it. He doesn’t know.”

 

His face was on fire. There was no universe where he could tell Tony Stark that Flash thought Peter was - what, sleeping with him - for money, or the internship, or some other godawful theory Flash had come up with. His stomach twisted just imagining telling the man.

 

Tony’s expression flickered, a strange mix of relief and confusion that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “...so he doesn’t know you’re-?”

 

“No,” Peter said firmly. He met Tony’s gaze, jaw set in something that was supposed to look certain. “I - look, don’t worry about it. He’s worried, but - yeah. It’s… fine.” His voice trailed off lamely, the word fine collapsing like a deflated balloon.

 

Tony leaned back in the chair, studying him with that same unimpressed stare that made Peter feel like he was back in physics class and having a teacher stare him down after missing an answer because he’d been dozing off again. Tony’s fingers drummed briefly on the armrest, then stilled.

 

He didn’t push.

 

Which was almost worse.

 

Peter sat there, staring at his lap, pretending he didn’t feel like his skin was crawling, like every nerve ending was buzzing with the fact that Flash had called Tony and that Tony thought Peter was telling people things he wasn’t supposed to. He couldn’t tell which humiliation was worse - that Flash had seen him like that, or that Tony now knew Flash had seen him like that. Fuck. Peter had been in Flash's bed. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

 

The silence dragged, heavy as the Medbay lights.

 

Finally, Peter scrubbed a hand over his tired face again, shoulders hunching. “Can I… get my phone back?” he asked eventually, because that was easier than dealing with the heat crawling down his neck. But then, all at once, a thought slammed into him like a train. He shot upright, ribs protesting sharply. “Wait - what time is it? Oh man, I’m so late for school-”

 

The world tilted and his breath caught, but before he could get more than halfway up, Tony’s hand was on his shoulder, pressing him firmly back down against the mattress.

 

“Relax,” Tony said, in that tone that didn’t leave room for argument. Something in Peter’s bones obeyed before his brain caught up, and he slumped back down. Tony didn’t move his hand until Peter had gone still again. Only then did he sit back slightly and add, “I called your incredibly attractive aunt-”

 

Peter groaned, dragging both hands up over his face to hide, but Tony barrelled on.

 

“-and she said it was okay for me to pull you out for a day or two for intern duties. I called the school, too. Everything’s fine.”

 

“I’m missing a chemistry quiz,” Peter muttered into his palms, voice small and mortified.

 

Tony just stared at him. The kind of long, flat stare that carried every are you kidding me right now in the world without him having to say a word.

 

Peter peeked out from behind his fingers, cheeks heating, then glanced away toward the wall. His ears felt hot. “How long do I have to stay?” he asked, weaker this time. “I’m fine now, right?”

 

“Sort of,” Tony said. He leaned back in his chair, but his gaze didn’t budge. “You need to be taking antibiotics, and you need to keep those bandages clean. Cho says no spider-manning for a week-”

 

“What?” The word burst out of Peter louder than he meant, his whole body jolting with indignation. “A week? That’s - people need-”

 

“And,” Tony interrupted smoothly, “you’re also grounded. For not coming to me in the first place.”

 

Peter let out the most pitiful groan, collapsing back into the bed like his bones had melted. He covered his face again, muffling into his hand. “Kill me now,” he muttered. “Please.”

 

“Not happening,” Tony said dryly. “Already saved your ass once this week, don’t make me make it two.”

 

Peter made a noise halfway between a laugh and a whimper, but it died in his throat. His chest felt tight, and his head was buzzing. The infection had knocked him flat, the weakness was real, and if Flash hadn’t-

 

He swallowed, forcing the thought away. His gut twisted.

 

Tony shifted in the chair, metal clinking faintly as he set his watch down on the side table. “Look, kid,” he said, softer now, “I’m not trying to make your life harder. I just don’t like being blindsided by phone calls telling me you’re half-dead because you thought you could handle it yourself.”

 

Peter peeked at him again, caught the worry ghosting through his face before Tony smoothed it over. His throat felt tight again.

 

He turned his face away toward the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t want to bother you,” he said quietly. The words slipped out before he could catch them, small and honest. “You’ve already got so much stuff going on.”

 

The silence that followed was heavy, prickling against his skin.

 

Then Tony exhaled. “Jesus, kid.” He rubbed at his temple. “You’re not a bother. You’re not - look, you don’t wait until it’s this bad. You come to me. Every time. Got it?”

 

Peter nodded once, quick and shallow, more reflex than agreement. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack.

 

Tony shifted in the chair beside him, metal creaking faintly as he leaned forward, then back again. He looked uncomfortable in a way Peter wasn’t used to seeing - like he wanted to be anywhere but here, yet also couldn’t bring himself to leave.

 

“There’s… one other thing,” Tony said finally, tone hesitant.

 

Peter blinked up at him, eyes heavy-lidded from exhaustion, but there was something in the pause that made his stomach tense. “…What?” he asked.

 

Tony’s hand tapped against his knee, restless. “You’re…” He trailed off, grimacing, then started again. “Look, this is gonna sound weird, but - are you eating okay?”

 

Peter blinked at him, confused. “What?”

 

“I mean,” Tony clarified quickly, hands lifting as if warding off the question itself, “I’m not saying you’re not, just…” He grimaced again, tugging at the hem of his jacket, obviously wishing he hadn’t started talking at all. His voice dropped. “Cho was changing your dressings earlier and she noticed… you’re looking kind of skinny.”

 

Heat crawled over Peter’s face before the sentence was even finished. His stomach clenched. “She - what? She was-” His voice cracked, embarrassment cutting sharp through the haze. “She saw me-?”

 

“Kid,” Tony interrupted gently, holding up a hand. “She’s a doctor. That’s her job. Nothing weird about it.”

 

Peter wanted to curl into the sheets and disappear. It didn’t matter that Cho was a doctor. It didn’t matter that she’d seen worse, probably. She’d still seen him, ribs poking, hipbones sticking out like something sharp. The skin-and-bone truth he tried so hard to keep hidden under hoodies and layers.

 

Tony sighed, leaning forward, elbows braced against his knees. His eyes were steady, worried. “She wasn’t being judgmental. Just… concerned. Said you’re really skinny. Like… early-stages-of-malnutrition skinny.”

 

Peter stiffened. Malnutrition. His throat closed up around it, pride and shame tangling hot in his chest. “I just-” He forced his shoulders back, scowled faintly. “I just have a fast metabolism. Okay? Spider thing. Can’t help it.”

Tony didn’t look convinced. He didn’t look anything but careful, like Peter was glass under pressure. “Maybe. But-” His eyes flicked down, taking in Peter’s arms, the way the hospital gown hung loose, the jut of collarbones under pale skin. Peter crossed his arms and pulled the blanket up a little higher automatically.  “You’ve been looking… tired. Run down. Like you’re not putting enough gas in the tank, you know? And I’ve been around long enough to recognize a couple warning signs.”

 

Peter bristled, pulse skittering fast. He shoved a hand through his hair, not sure whether he wanted to argue or bolt. The drugs in his system made it hard to hold onto either option. “I don’t - there’s nothing wrong with me. I eat. I’m fine.”

 

Tony tilted his head, watching him with that sharp, too-perceptive gaze. “...You sure?”

 

“Yes,” Peter snapped, too quick, too defensive. His ears burned. He knew exactly how it sounded, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I don’t have - whatever you’re implying. I’m not - I don’t…” His voice broke, trailing off into frustrated silence.

 

Tony’s hands spread, slow and careful. “Hey. I’m not accusing. I’m just asking. Because when I was your age, I wasn’t exactly… handling things well. Always in the spotlight, pressure from every angle. Everyone knows I picked up a couple bad habits trying to keep my head above water.” He huffed out a humorless laugh, looking down at his hands. “I used to wear makeup to hide how bad I looked. Watched my weight when I wasn’t shitfaced. Ate the wrong things or didn’t eat at all - just drank, because that was easier.”

 

Peter’s stomach sank, and the words dredged up a wave of secondhand shame he didn’t want to be holding. He looked away, fixing his eyes on the sterile white wall, anywhere but Tony.

 

“I’m not saying you’re me,” Tony went on carefully. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s… not taking care of themselves, enhanced metabolism or not. And I don’t want you going down that road, okay?”

 

Peter’s stomach sank, a heavy drop that made his throat burn. He knew where this was going, and his pulse started to thud faster.

 

Tony hesitated, then said, softer, “So… is that what’s going on with you?”

 

Peter’s mouth went dry. It took him a second to find his voice. When he did, it came out tighter than he wanted. “…You think I have an eating disorder?”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Tony said quickly, but there was caution in his tone. “I’m just asking if maybe you’re… struggling. And if you are, I want you to know I’ve been there. We can fix it.”

 

Heat flushed up Peter’s neck - anger and humiliation knotted so close together he couldn’t separate them. He wasn’t anorexic. He wasn’t bulimic. He wasn’t anything except broke. He was starving because the fridge was empty, because May watered down milk so it lasted longer, because takeout was a luxury, because even leftovers from lab nights had stopped being an option after their fight.

 

Tony didn’t get it. He thought Peter was broken in some personal, controllable way, when the truth was so much uglier and smaller: Peter didn’t eat because he couldn’t afford to.

 

The shame twisted hard in his chest, and Peter pressed his lips together, jaw tight. His chest ached with a mix of anger and humiliation, neither one strong enough to fight past the exhaustion weighing him down. He wanted to shout that Tony didn’t get it, and that he was so smart, but why didn’t he just see that-

 

He didn’t see because Peter was hiding it. But Peter wasn’t about to come crawling to Mr. Stark to ask for handouts. 

 

He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t have an eating disorder. Sure, looking at the scraps in the fridge sometimes made him feel sick with guilt. The thought of food now made his stomach turn more than it made him hungry, but this wasn’t some messed-up coping mechanism; it wasn’t about control or image or anything like that. He wanted to explain that food was just expensive and Peter couldn’t afford a whole lot, but the words felt impossible. Stupid. 

 

Pathetic.

 

Because the truth was worse. The truth was that it wasn’t a choice. He wasn’t starving himself on purpose. He was just starving. Because sometimes there wasn’t enough food. Because sometimes Aunt May worked late and the fridge stayed empty and Peter filled the gap with excuses and water and the hope that maybe tomorrow would be better.

 

Sometimes he chose not to eat so May would have leftovers. Sometimes he chose not to eat because he didn’t think he deserved it over her.

 

His fists curled in the blanket, shame burning hot in his chest. He couldn’t say that out loud. Couldn’t look Tony in the eye and admit it. So instead, he shut down. “I don’t have an eating disorder,” he said flatly, voice clipped.

 

Tony went still, studying him. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Okay. I believe you.” His tone was gentle, careful. Too careful. “But you know you can talk to me about anything, right? I know… I know we had that fight the other week, but… I - care. About you. And if something is wrong, you can come to me, okay? Doesn’t matter what it is.”

 

Peter gave another short nod, eyes still fixed on the wall. He couldn’t bring himself to answer without the risk of everything spilling out in one humiliating rush. His throat felt tight, his chest hollow.

 

Tony shifted in his chair, the sound of leather creaking. “Alright. That’s all I wanted to say.”

 

Peter swallowed hard. Instead of relief, all he felt was the heavy press of guilt. He didn’t deserve that kind of reassurance. Not when he couldn’t even be honest about something as basic as food.

 

So he stayed silent, staring at the blank wall until the steady beep of the monitors blurred into the fog of his drugged exhaustion again.

 

—

 

Flash’s knee had been bouncing under the desk for a while now, a restless little tremor that he’d told himself was just because the lecture was boring as hell. It wasn’t. Well, it was, but that wasn’t why he was wound so tight. He’d been fighting the urge to check his phone for the past twenty minutes, telling himself that no news meant things were fine, and that if something bad had happened someone would have told him.

 

Tony Stark would have told him.

 

Sure. The guy who abused kids would definitely swing by to let him know that Peter was okay or not okay or whatever the hell had happened, because apparently Iron Man was some sort of fucking-

 

Then the phone vibrated.

 

It was just a little buzz in his pocket, but it was like someone had shoved an electric wire straight into his chest. His hand was on it before he could think, pulling it out under the desk, tilting it to hide the screen from the front of the room.

 

And then he saw-

 

A selfie.

 

Peter, sitting in what looked like some kind of hospital with sterile white walls and clinical-looking monitors blurry behind him. He had an IV taped to the back of his hand, the tube running out of frame, and there was a cannula hooked over his ears and under his nose. His face looked pale, exhausted, with dark shadows carved under his eyes, but he was grinning like an idiot at the camera.

 

The caption under the photo: 

 

Peter: i lived bitch

 

Flash’s heart lurched so hard it hurt. For a second, his vision swam as his body slumped back in the chair because it was either that or risk sliding right to the floor. He’d been holding himself so tight for so long he hadn’t even noticed how much tension was built up in him, and now it all came crashing out in one dizzy wave of relief.

 

Flash’s hands were shaking as he thumbed out a reply.

 

Flash: where are you?

 

Flash: are you okay??

 

Flash: are yuo hurt???

 

He barely even blinked at the fact that he hadn’t said hi, or that maybe he should’ve played it cool. Who cared, at this point - he’d been imagining morgues and police calls and having to explain to Parker’s aunt that he didn’t know what happened - so yeah, he was allowed to skip the pleasantries.

 

The typing bubbles popped up almost immediately.

 

Peter: medbay at stark tower

 

Peter: food is ass would NOT recommend 0/10

 

Flash froze, staring at the words. His stomach twisted, the relief in his chest souring into something heavier, meaner. Stark Tower. Of course. Because the universe wasn’t content with just giving him a heart attack over whether Peter was alive - it had to tack on the part where Peter was in his space, his care, his bed, maybe.

 

He gritted his teeth, thumbs flying over the keyboard again.

 

Flash: what the hell are you doing there???

 

Flash: He didn’t take you to an actual HOSPITAL???

 

He could practically see Peter’s shrug through the phone when the reply came.

 

Peter: getting patched up lol

 

Flash wanted to throw the phone against the wall. Lol. Lol. The little bastard looked half-dead, hooked up to wires, clearly fresh out of some life-threatening nightmare, and he was acting like it was nothing. No mention of what happened. No acknowledgement of the fact that Flash had been left twisting for hours without so much as a call. Just “lol.”

 

His fingers were already moving before he could stop himself.

 

Flash: this isn’t funny. you look like shit and i thought you died in my bed last night. what happened?

 

Peter didn’t answer right away this time. Flash could picture him doing it - ignoring the question, maybe making some dumb joke or changing the subject entirely. And sure enough, the typing bubbles appeared, disappeared, and then came back before the message finally arrived.

 

Peter: relax, i’m fine. Dw just a rough night ig

 

Fine.

 

Flash could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, the heat building in his chest like a pressure cooker. He wanted to grab Peter by the shoulders and shake him until he stopped brushing him off, because-

 

That had been scary. It had been scary and Peter didn’t even seem to acknowledge it.

 

Flash: you’re not fine. stop acting like this is funny.

 

No reply. Just the three dots of typing again, and then nothing. Flash frowned, and he gripped his phone a little tighter.

 

Flash: sorry

 

Flash: idk you just scared me

 

A pause. Longer, before the dots begin again.

 

Peter: im sorry too

 

Peter: turns out im not as good at stitches as i thought i was 

 

Peter: getting yelled at by dr cho :(

 

Before Flash can even begin to type out who the fuck is Dr. Cho? from the front of the room, the teacher’s voice cut in sharply. “Eugene, if you don’t put that phone away right now, I’ll be taking it until the end of the day.”

 

Flash snapped his head up, caught in the act. He wanted to snap back that there were more important things happening than whatever worksheet was on the board, but the glare she was giving him wasn’t worth the fight. He shot one last glance at the screen - still nothing else from Peter - then shoved the phone into his pocket and clicked it off.

 

He sat back in his chair, staring at the front without seeing anything, his jaw tight. The relief was still there, buried under his ribs, but it was tangled up now with something sour and unsettled. Peter was alive and… probably okay. Getting yelled out but awake and aware and conscious. That should’ve been enough to make everything feel lighter. But the image of him - too pale, too wired up, sitting in Stark’s medbay - kept flashing through his mind, and all Flash could think was that he needed to get him out of there.

 

Before Stark got his hands on him any more than he already had.

 

—

 

Going home felt strange. 

 

Not just because it had been a couple days since he’d seen his own room - that had been difficult to convince May of, but apparently Tony was good at smoothing things over and lying about important intern duties, because she hadn’t shown up banging on the Tower doors looking for him - but because walking out of Stark Tower felt like crossing some invisible line; leaving behind the safety net, the beeping Medbay monitors, the steady background noise of FRIDAY’s voice, and stepping back into the quiet unpredictability of normal life. 

 

As he stepped out of the car and murmured his thanks to Happy, the air felt colder and sharper against his skin, and he kept his jacket zipped up tight even though he was sweating under it.

 

When he pushed the apartment door open, the familiar sound of May’s voice calling his name sent something warm rushing through him. She was in the kitchen, putting something away, but as soon as she saw him she crossed the room in about two seconds flat, hands coming up to cup his face like she thought he might disappear if she didn’t get a good hold on him.

 

“Oh, baby, you look awful,” she said, her voice pitched with that mix of worry and relief. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well? I hope he’s not working you too hard with that internship, you know you can come home if you need it, right? Your health is more important, Peter.”

 

Peter tried for a sheepish grin. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”

 

It felt weird, letting her fuss over him when she didn’t know the half of it. She didn’t know about the alley, or the fight, or the way his ribs still ached every time he twisted too far to one side. Keeping it from her made his chest feel tight, but telling her - really telling her - would’ve made her look at him differently, and he couldn’t stomach that.

 

She didn’t press him, though. She just led him into the living room, tugged the blanket off the back of the couch, and wrapped it around his shoulders like he was six again. “Sit. I’ll get us something to drink. We’re having a lazy day. Doctor’s orders - well, my orders, but still.”

 

The afternoon passed in a comfortable haze. They watched two movies in a row, though Peter barely paid attention to either. He liked the noise, liked having May next to him on the couch, liked knowing that if he shifted his weight her hand would land on his shoulder or his leg without hesitation. She kept asking if he was hungry, if the blanket was warm enough, if he wanted another pillow. The smell of dinner drifted in from the kitchen later - something with pasta and too much garlic, exactly the way he liked it.

 

For a few hours, it almost felt normal. No lectures. No Medbay. No Spider-Man or Flash or eyes following him in the corridoors. Just him and May and the soft glow of the TV.

 

But May had a shift that evening. She hovered by the door when it was time to go, her coat half-on, watching him from across the room. “I can stay if you want,” she offered, and she meant it - Peter could hear it in her voice. She’d call out of work if he said the word.

 

He shook his head. “Nah, I’m fine. Go. You’ll be late.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, forcing another smile. “I’m just gonna sleep it off. I’ll be fine.”

 

She lingered another moment, then finally nodded and stepped out, locking the door behind her.

 

And then it was quiet - really quiet. The kind of quiet where you could hear the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of traffic outside. Peter pulled the blanket tighter around himself and stared at the darkened TV screen, pretending it didn’t suddenly feel like the walls were a little too far apart, like the space around him was just a little too empty.

 

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

 

He frowned. May had only just left for her shift a little while ago, keys definitely in hand - he’d watched her clip them to her bag.

 

“May, did you forget your keys again?” he called, padding barefoot across the floor and pulling the door open without thinking.

 

Only it wasn’t May.

 

Flash was standing there, hair a little messy, hoodie unzipped over a wrinkled t-shirt, looking both wired and like he’d sprinted the whole way over. Peter barely got out a startled, “What’re you-?” before Flash was through the doorway, shutting it behind him and wrapping his arms around him in one quick, tight movement.

 

The hug was rushed, almost awkward, but Peter could feel how careful it was too - how Flash’s hands shifted automatically, mindful of his side like he knew exactly where not to press. For a second, Peter froze, arms still at his sides. He hadn’t really been hugged by anyone other than May or maybe Ned since - well. Since before.

 

But then the warmth of it hit him, the thump of Flash’s chest under his cheek, and something in him gave. Slowly, he lifted his arms and returned the hug, one hand curling against the back of Flash’s hoodie, the other gripping lightly at his shoulder. He let himself squeeze back, felt Flash’s fingers shift in response like an unspoken there you go.

 

His body loosened before his mind caught up. The knot of tension that had been coiled under his ribs for days eased, just a little. He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until he exhaled against Flash’s shoulder.

 

“This is nice,” he heard himself say, words muffled and slipping out without permission. “You have nice arms.”

 

The moment hung for just a beat before Flash let out a short, incredulous snort - half amused, half disbelieving. Peter felt his own face go hot instantly, burning all the way up to his ears. He pulled back so fast it probably looked like the hug had been some kind of mistake.

 

“I’m-” He made a vague gesture at himself, grimacing. “I’m still on, like, a lot of pain meds. They’re making me stupid.” He stepped back, trying to hide it by fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His skin was still warm, the flush working up into his ears, and he hated - really hated - that he could feel the heat lingering there even after the hug was over. He was still leaning a little too much on the doorframe, his weight shifted away from his stitched side.

 

Flash’s mouth quirked, but the humor didn’t last long. His gaze flicked down toward Peter’s side, then back up again with that tone shift Peter had started to recognize - the change from casual to concerned. “How’s your side? Are you okay?”

 

Peter forced a nod. “Yeah, I’m good.” He straightened up and stepped aside, letting the door swing shut behind them. “Come in.”

 

Flash walked in like he owned the place, and Peter padded after him, catching the faint smell of cold air and cologne - clean, kind of sharp, in a way that made the apartment feel less empty.

 

“You want something to drink? Eat?” Peter asked, trying to inject some casual hospitality into his voice. The kitchen wasn’t exactly bursting with options, but the offer felt like the normal thing to do. Something May would say.

 

“I brought you the notes you missed.” Flash was already reaching into his backpack, pulling out a worn notebook with his own messy handwriting across the front. 

 

Peter’s face lit up before he could stop it. He took the notebook, flipping through the pages for a second. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said, and for a moment, he meant it more than he thought Flash probably expected. “Seriously. I was worried I’d be so far behind.”

 

Flash shrugged, but his eyes hadn’t moved from Peter’s face. “Yeah. Just… are you okay, though?”

 

Peter closed the notebook and set it on the kitchen counter. “I’m fine,” he said easily, turning to grab a drink or do something with his hands that didn’t involve him looking at Flash. “It sucked, but I’m fine now.”

 

“That’s not-” Flash stopped, then tried again. “Dude, come on. Can I see?”

 

Peter blinked. “See what?”

 

“Your side.” Flash’s tone was light, but there was an undercurrent that was harder to dodge.

 

Peter shook his head immediately. “I’m fine. I got released from the Medbay, so, you know… I’ll be fine.”

 

Flash just looked at him, his mouth pulling into a line that was almost stubborn. “Please, Peter.”

 

And that one word - please - landed differently. Not bossy. Not teasing. It was soft enough to make Peter’s chest feel tight. He shifted on his feet, and the air in the room was suddenly feeling warmer and heavier. His first instinct was still to deflect; maybe to keep that little wall between them. But Flash wasn’t going to let it go.

 

Peter didn’t even want to meet Flash’s eyes when the question came again.

 “Let me see,” Flash said, his voice softer this time, but not less insistent.

 

Peter crossed his arms across his chest and shrugged like it was no big deal. “It’s fine,” he said again, firmly. “They let me out of the medbay. That means I’m fine.”

 

It should have been enough. It was enough for May - though she didn’t exactly know about any of it. It was enough for Tony - well, not really, but at least Tony pretended to let it slide. But Flash wasn’t moving. He just stood there, watching Peter with that stubborn set to his jaw that made Peter want to squirm.

 

“Please, Peter.”

 

The way he said it - quiet, almost careful - threw Peter off more than any demand would have. He hated how much it made him hesitate. He could’ve just laughed it off, could’ve made a joke, but instead he felt his throat tighten.

 

“…Okay,” Peter muttered, looking anywhere but at him.

 

He hooked a thumb under the hem of his shirt and lifted it slowly, like maybe dragging it out would make it less weird. It didn’t. Cool air brushed over the skin of his stomach, and the muscles along his side tensed automatically. He turned his head away, heat crawling up his neck. The white bandages stood out against his skin in a way that felt far too loud.

 

“There’s not much to see-” he started, wanting to hurry and drop the fabric again, but the words died as soon as he felt it.

 

Warm hands.

 

Flash’s hands, splayed gently against his skin, the heat of them bleeding into him like it had any right to be there. Peter froze, his breath catching before he could stop it. The touch was careful, not probing, but there was no way to pretend it wasn’t happening.

 

His ears burned. He didn’t even remember tugging his shirt back down, but suddenly the cotton was between them again. “I’m fine now,” he said again quickly, like that erased the moment.

 

Except Flash didn’t move his hands. They were still there, resting against his waist like they belonged, fingers curving in slightly. “You sure?” he asked, low, searching.

 

“Yes,” Peter said, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Don’t worry-”

 

“I was worried because you passed out in my bed the other morning,” Flash cut in, the words sharp with something Peter couldn’t quite name, “and I had to get Tony Stark to come pick you up.”

 

Peter winced, pulling back just slightly, the memory crawling up his spine like cold water. “About that - what did you say to him? He-”

 

“I told him that I knew how you got it,” Flash interrupted again.

 

Peter’s head snapped up. His voice came out flat, colder than he meant it to. “...But you don’t.”

 

“Peter,” Flash pressed, lowering his voice like he thought it made him sound more reasonable, “I know you’re doing something that’s - not legal. It doesn’t take a genius to make the leap, even if you won’t admit it.”

 

Peter’s breath caught, heat rushing up the back of his neck. His chest tightened, his mouth dry. “I’m not a prostitute,” he said again, sharper this time. The word felt heavy, foreign in his mouth, but Flash didn’t even blink.

 

“I don’t care,” Flash said, brushing him off like it was nothing. “Seriously. I get it if you don’t want to admit it, but I’m not going to - like… look down on you or anything.”

 

Peter stared at him, disbelief bubbling up hot in his chest. He couldn’t believe this conversation was even happening. “You tried to give me money.”

 

“Because I want you to keep yourself safe instead of doing whatever this is!” Flash snapped, louder than before. His hands flexed at his sides, frustration bleeding into every word.

 

Peter’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. His brain felt sluggish, still fogged from pain and exhaustion and the final leftover dregs of the drugs still slogging through his system. His voice came out quieter, and a little shaky despite himself. “Why?”

 

Flash blinked. “What?”

 

“Why?” Peter repeated, throat tight. His brows knit together, and he hated how small he sounded. “Like - I just… why do you care?”

 

For the first time, Flash’s jaw clicked shut. His mouth opened once, closed again, and something flickered across his face - anger, guilt, maybe even panic - before it smoothed into that practiced, sharp mask Peter had seen before.

 

But Flash didn’t answer.

 

Flash’s voice had shifted - still frustrated, still carrying that sharp edge Peter had come to expect from him, but threaded with something else now. Something raw and impatient in a way that didn’t feel like teasing or posturing. “Because - you’re going to get hurt.”

 

Peter’s first instinct was to shove back. He crossed his arms over his chest - not defensive, not really, but just enough to feel like there was a barrier there - and forced out, “So?”

 

It came out sharper than he meant. More brittle.

 

Flash didn’t even flinch. “So?” he echoed, and then the volume jumped, like he’d been holding it back for too long. “So you’re bleeding all over the place half the time, Parker. You’re limping down hallways and pretending you’re fine, and you’re obviously not, but you think no one notices? You think just because you say you’re fine, that’s believable? You’re a terrible liar.”

 

Peter swallowed hard. His heart gave a slow, heavy thud in his chest that felt too loud in his ears. He wanted to roll his eyes and make some throwaway joke about Flash suddenly caring, but there was a knot forming in his stomach that wouldn’t let him force the words out.

 

“I can handle myself,” he said, quieter now. 

 

Flash gritted his teeth, a frustrated exhale leaving him, and his hands - still at Peter’s waist, still stubbornly not moving - tightened just slightly. Not enough to hurt, not enough to pin him, but enough to make Peter notice the warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. “That’s not the point,” Flash said, voice low. “Handling yourself isn’t the same thing as taking care of yourself. And you’re not doing the second one at all.”

 

Peter’s throat felt tight. He couldn’t look up at him - not with Flash this close. Instead, his gaze drifted toward the side, somewhere over Flash’s shoulder, like if he didn’t make eye contact he could make the conversation dissolve.

 

He tried to breathe in through his nose and keep his voice steady. “You don’t-” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Flash huffed out a humorless laugh. “Right. Because I haven’t been watching this happen for months.”

 

Peter’s hands twitched against his own arms, an urge to move, pull away, to put more space between them than the couple of inches that felt like they were burning into his awareness. “It’s none of your business,” he said, and it didn’t come out as strong as he wanted.

 

“That’s the thing,” Flash said, leaning just slightly forward, not enough to crowd but enough that Peter felt it. “It’s not supposed to be my business. But I’m making it my business because you’re too stubborn to do anything about it yourself.”

 

Peter’s lips pressed together, jaw aching. The worst part was the flicker of something unfamiliar curling in his chest - not quite guilt, not quite shame, but dangerously close to both. Something about Flash sounding… earnest.

 

The seconds stretched, quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Peter was aware of every shift of his own breathing, every small brush of fabric where their bodies were too close.

 

He wanted to push Flash’s hands off, to put a clean, hard stop to this conversation - but he didn’t.

 

“Why do you care, though?” Peter demanded again, whipping his head up to glare at him. “I can manage it myself!”

 

“You shouldn’t have to!” Flash’s voice broke into a shout, and the sound cracked through the kitchen, loud enough that Peter flinched despite himself. For a second there was only silence, the kind that pressed heavy on his chest, left him without air. The words sat there between them, heavy and thick in the quiet that followed. Peter could feel his own pulse thudding in his ears, every muscle tensed, caught somewhere between defensiveness and something softer he didn’t want to name. His mouth opened like he was going to say something - he wasn’t sure what - but the air shifted before he could.

 

And then - before he could think any better of it - Flash hauled Peter in and kissed him.

 

It was clumsy in a way that was almost jarring - no smooth lead-up, no warning, just a sudden, desperate forward motion that had his hand gripping Peter’s shirt as he pulled him in. Peter froze instinctively, breath catching. For a split second, all he could register was close - too close - Flash’s face filling his vision, the rush of warmth against his mouth, the faint taste of whatever gum he’d been chewing earlier.

 

Every instinct screamed at him to jerk back, to shove him away, to- 

 

But he didn’t want to.

 

It was stupid how quickly it happened, how the tension that had locked up his shoulders melted away in a slow, unstoppable tide. He felt himself leaning in without fully deciding to, letting the kiss deepen, letting Flash’s grip on his shirt draw him closer still. His hand had found Flash’s arm without him noticing, fingers curling into the fabric there, holding him in place like he might vanish if Peter let go.

 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been kissed before, but this felt different - not the polished, half-bored kind of attention he’d gotten at parties, not the hurried, distracted kind from someone who wasn’t really looking at him. This was urgent, almost frantic, but there was nothing performative about it. Flash kissed him like he meant it, like he was trying to get something across that words had failed to say.

 

Peter’s head was a mess. His brain kept flickering between what the hell is happening and don’t stop.

 

When Flash started to pull back - probably to apologise, probably to ruin the moment with something awkward - Peter didn’t even think. His hand shot up, catching the side of Flash’s neck, tugging him back in.

 

The shift was easy, instinctive - Peter guiding him backwards a step, then another, until the edge of the kitchen counter pressed into the small of Flash’s back. It was only then that Peter realised how fast his own heart was beating.

 

Flash’s hands settled on his waist again, firmer this time, fingers spreading like they were trying to memorise the shape of him. The warmth seeped through Peter’s shirt, an anchor against the cool air, and before he knew it, those hands were slipping beneath the hem entirely. The heat of skin-on-skin made him shiver, every muscle in his stomach tightening under the touch.

 

He melted instead, fists curling into Flash’s shirt, dragging him further in. His mouth opened under Flash’s without thinking, reckless and desperate, and the knot in his chest eased for the first time in weeks. He pulled him closer, teeth clashing briefly before it smoothed into something messy and unpracticed, but so nice.

 

For a few dizzy seconds, it was easy to forget everything else.

 

Peter clutched at him like he was trying to drown out the noise in his own head. His pulse hammered, though not from panic this time - but from the raw relief of not having to think. Flash’s mouth was hot against his, and Peter welcomed the way it filled up all the space where fear usually sat. Flash’s hands stopped hesitating once Peter dragged him closer. They tightened, fingers digging into his waist before one slid higher, tugging the fabric of his shirt along with it. Then Flash’s palm found the bare curve of his ribs and Peter broke against him, gasping into the kiss like the air had been punched out of him.

 

It only made Flash hold firmer. His other hand shoved into Peter’s hair, gripping tight, and the gentle pull at his scalp sent a shudder racing down his spine. It was too much and not enough all at once - every part of him ached, but God, it was better than the empty ache he’d been carrying.

 

Peter melted into the warmth and the pressure and the strange comfort of someone not letting him slip away. His knees bumped the counter as he pressed forward, almost clumsy in the urgency, and Flash kissed like he was mad at him - angry, frustrated, but unwilling to let go - and Peter let him. He wanted to be held like that, wanted to be wanted even if it hurt. His own hands slid up Flash’s chest, fisting tight in the collar of his shirt.

 

He broke the kiss for a breath - not because he wanted to, but because he needed air - and then Flash was leaning in again before either of them could say anything, ducking against Peter’s throat in another quick, hungry press. Then another. And another.

 

Then one of Flash’s hands shifted - slow, careful - coming up to rest against Peter’s cheek. The change in touch startled him; it was a gentler contact, thumb brushing lightly against his skin, and Peter hated the way it made his chest ache.

 

He didn’t pull away.

 

If anything, he leaned into it.

 

But then Flash had pulled back. Even with Peter following, desperate and embarrassingly unguarded, the space between them had rushed back in, cold and too big. Peter’s mouth parted in a little sound he hated himself for making, almost a whine, his hands curling against his own shirt like they didn’t know where to go now. Flash’s face was flushed, eyes wide, and Peter felt that slow, sick drop in his gut as reality clicked back into place.

 

He stumbled back a step like the counter had tilted under him. 

 

“Oh. Sorry. I - fuck.” The words tumbled out before he could think to stop them, stammering and useless, the kind of apology that didn’t make sense but felt like it needed to be said. His ears were burning and he couldn’t meet Flash’s gaze for more than half a second without feeling like his brain short-circuited.

 

“Why are you sorry?” Flash demanded, incredulous in a way that made Peter want to crawl under the floorboards. “I kissed you!”

 

“I don’t-” Peter’s voice cracked, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I kissed back?” It came out more like a question than a statement, absurd even to his own ears. His thoughts were a mess of static. “I - why’d you kiss me?”

 

Flash’s mouth opened, then closed. “I have no idea,” he said, face burning, voice pitched just a little too even.

 

Peter knew a lie when he heard one. His instincts had been honed over years of hearing people dodge and deflect, but he didn’t press.  

 

The silence stretched again. It wasn’t comfortable. It felt sharp, buzzing at the edges.

 

“I-” Flash started, halting like the words caught somewhere on the way out. “Look, I just - I care about you. And - and I don’t want you to get hurt. I’d rather-” His voice faltered for a heartbeat before he pushed through. “I’d rather help out than make you keep doing whatever you’re-”

 

Peter winced, cutting him off before the sentence could finish its inevitable dive into territory he didn’t want to tread again. “It’s - Flash, dude. Seriously.” He could feel his own frustration mounting, not even at Flash, but at the sheer impossibility of explaining it all. It would only mean more lying and more cover-ups and more problems. And Peter was… so tired with the lying.  “I don’t know how to convince you it’s not like that.”

 

The words hung there, heavy and useless, and Peter realized his hands were still clenched at his sides, like his body was braced for a hit that wasn’t coming. The warmth from the kiss lingered on his lips, and the whole thing had left him feeling unmoored - half like he’d just been thrown a lifeline, half like someone had cut him loose entirely.

 

Peter hated the way his chest twisted when Flash said it - like Flash was peeling away a layer of him he’d been trying desperately to keep intact.

 

Flash’s voice was low, worn down in a way Peter didn’t hear often. “I don’t know why you don’t want to tell me. Do you think I’ll think differently of you or something? It’s-”

 

“I can’t tell you,” Peter said before the words could turn into something sharper. His eyes squeezed shut like that might help hold the truth in. “It’s not -  it’s not something I can talk about. Even if you did believe me.”

 

Flash’s hand tightened on his arm. “I don’t care what it is,” he said, and his other hand moved again, sliding under Peter’s shirt like he couldn’t stop himself from checking for damage. “I just - look, Parker, you’re just - you have so many scars and bruises and everything, I just-”

 

Peter flinched like the touch was more intimate than it was supposed to be. He shoved his shirt back down, head turning away so Flash wouldn’t see his face. But he could feel the heat rising there anyway, thick and unshakable.

 

“Just tell me!” Flash snapped, frustration breaking through the quiet. “I’m trying to help you!”

 

And for a split second, Peter almost did. He almost let the words fall out, almost let himself be stupid and reckless and selfish. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To have someone else know. Someone other than Ned, other than Mr. Stark - someone who wouldn’t look at him like he was a ticking time bomb or an exhausted soldier still limping home from the fight.

 

Flash cared. He was pushy about it, sure, but it was… real, he thought. He hoped. Flash wouldn’t hate him. Hell, Flash might even think it was cool.

 

But then came the rest of it. Flash would worry. He’d get dragged into things that weren’t his fight. He’d end up in danger because Peter had a bad habit of pulling people into his orbit, whether he wanted to or not. And one more person meant another risk, and May would be in danger too.

 

So instead of answering, Peter just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Flash was warm and solid, and Peter ducked his head into the curve of his shoulder like maybe he could disappear there.

 

His mouth opened before he could stop it, and he thought, maybe this time - maybe this time I’ll just say it. But what came out, barely above a whisper, was, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

 

The words tasted bitter in his mouth, and he hated how much they felt like the truth.

 

Peter’s hands dropped uselessly to his sides, the motion feeling heavier than it should have. The hug was gone, the warmth gone, and already the air between them felt colde, like a draft had cut through the room. He had wanted to speak, had felt the words rise up, thick and trembling in his throat, but they’d come out all wrong. Not the truth. Just that apology, soft and inadequate, hanging there between them like something fragile and breakable that Flash didn’t even try to catch.

 

Flash made a low, frustrated sound - half a growl, half a breath through clenched teeth - and stepped back. His hands, warm and grounding on Peter’s arms, pushed him away, not with force, but with a deliberate finality that made Peter’s stomach lurch.

 

"Sure," Flash said, flat. His voice was low, almost quiet, but every syllable carried an edge, like glass ground against glass. "Whatever. I don’t care."

 

It wasn’t true - Peter knew it wasn’t true - but hearing it still hurt. He wanted to say something, to stop him, but Flash was already turning away, already stooping to grab his bag from where it had been tossed by the entryway.

 

Peter’s eyes followed the movement automatically, catching the small scuffs on the strap, the half-unzipped front pocket that always spilled pens and receipts, and it was stupid, so stupid, that his chest hurt over something that ordinary.

 

Flash dug through it with impatient hands, the rustle of paper loud in the quiet room. He pulled out more homework packets, dropped them on the kitchen counter with a dull slap. The sight of them made Peter’s throat tighten again, because they weren’t just packets, they were Flash thinking of him when he wasn’t around, Flash making sure he wouldn’t fall behind, and Peter had ruined everything all over again, and-

 

"There’s your homework for the classes you missed. Bye."

 

The word landed sharp, too final. Peter flinched. "Wait-"

 

But Flash was already moving toward the door, steps brisk. He didn’t even look at him when he asked, "Why?"

 

Peter’s hands twitched uselessly at his sides. "Because-" he started, but the words dried up mid-breath. 

 

Because I’m sorry. Because I can’t tell you the truth without ruining everything. Because I don’t want you to look at me differently. Because if you knew, you’d be in danger, and so would May, and I can’t let that happen.

 

"I-" he tried again, but his voice cracked, and nothing else came out. He swallowed hard, his chest tight, his brain scrambling for anything that would make sense, anything that would make Flash stay. The silence stretched, heavy and awful. Finally, he managed, "...I don’t know what to tell you."

 

Flash’s lip curled - not in confusion, not in hurt, but in a sharp, cutting way that Peter hadn’t seen in so long he’d almost forgotten it. Almost. It was the same expression Flash used to have in the hallways, right before shoving him into a locker or saying something mean. Back then, Peter had learned to brace for it. Now, after everything, after months of some fragile, cautious kind of friendship - after more than friendship - that look felt wrong. Alien.

 

"You’re supposed to tell me the truth," Flash said.

 

Peter’s gaze dropped to the floor. His face burned hot, not just from embarrassment but from the ache of it - of wanting to say it all and still knowing he couldn’t. "I can’t," he said. It was small, pathetic.

 

Flash’s face hardened completely, the last traces of anything soft disappearing. "Whatever."

 

The word was blunt. He turned, and the next moment the door slammed behind him with a force that made Peter flinch again, even though he’d seen it coming.

 

The apartment went quiet. Too quiet. Peter stood in the middle of the living room, frozen, the sound of the door still ringing in his ears. The last traces of Flash’s warmth - on his arms, in the space between them - were already fading, replaced by the cooler air of the empty room. His chest felt hollow. He felt like someone had reached in and scooped something out.

 

He sank down onto the couch without meaning to, staring at the packets on the kitchen table. They sat there, untouched, like they were mocking him. They were proof that Flash had cared before he’d walked out. Proof that he’d been trying.

 

Peter leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands threading through his hair. He wished he could run after him, wished he could grab his wrist, pull him back, say everything - say it in a way that didn’t put him in danger. But there wasn’t a way. There never had been.

 

And now, he was alone again.

 

—

 

Flash stomped up the stairs two at a time, every step loud enough to rattle the picture frames on the wall, and shouldered his bedroom door open harder than necessary. The bag slid off his shoulder and hit the floor with a satisfying, heavy thump. He didn’t bother to pick it up. The straps twisted like a mangled seatbelt on the carpet, and he left it there, pacing once before throwing himself backward onto his bed.

 

The house was silent. It was always silent when his parents were gone - which was basically always at this fucking point - but tonight the quiet felt different. It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was like the walls were leaning in. He let out a sharp, frustrated exhale and kicked his sneakers off without bothering to untie them, one bouncing off the wall with a dull thud.

 

He was pissed. No, that wasn’t even the right word - pissed was too simple, too clean. This was messy. This was irritation tangled up with something heavier, something that burned behind his eyes when he thought about Peter’s face, the way it had gone still after those words: I’m sorry. I can’t. 

 

Like Flash had been stupid to even try.

 

He raked his hands over his face, dragging them down until his palms pressed against his mouth. It was stupid. He was stupid. He’d gone there with this half-baked hope that maybe Peter would finally be honest with him this time. Maybe everything would finally make sense. Flash had been patient. More patient than he’d ever been with anyone, which wasn’t exactly his strong suit.

 

And for what?

 

For Peter to look at him with those wide, guarded eyes and just… shut him out again.

 

He sat up abruptly, elbows on his knees, staring at the mess of clothes on his floor without really seeing them. He’d tried to be open. He’d tried everything - joking, pushing, backing off, giving him space, calling him out. He’d laid it all out there, his own stupid feelings, his worry, his frustration. And Peter still clung to whatever the hell secret he thought he had to protect. Like Flash was a stranger. Like Flash hadn’t-

 

He cut the thought off before it went too far, but the ghost of it lingered anyway.

 

And then there was the kiss.

 

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. He didn’t even know why he’d done it. The words had been building in his throat, sharp and messy, and before he could spit them out, before he could even think, he’d just - pulled Peter in. It hadn’t been some grand plan. It hadn’t been meant to fix anything. Hell, he’d barely been aware of deciding to do it. One second they’d been standing there, Peter all tense and unreadable, and the next Flash had a fist in his hoodie and his mouth was on his.

 

He told himself he hadn’t meant it. He told himself it was just… impulse, or frustration, or the quickest way to shut him up. He told himself a lot of things, because the alternative was admitting something that sat like a landmine under his ribs.

 

And Jesus, he could still feel it.

 

If he let himself think too long, he could still feel the exact shape of it - the split-second stiffness, like Peter was about to shove him away, and then… and then he’d melted. Just folded into it like he’d been waiting for it, grabbed Flash like he couldn’t get close enough.

 

That was the part messing him up the most.

 

Because if Peter had shoved him back, if he’d snapped something cutting and furious, Flash could’ve laughed it off, tossed an insult, shoved him harder and walked away. Easy. Clean. Familiar. But he hadn’t. Peter had kissed him back.

 

And Flash didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

 

He’d been pacing circles in his head ever since, every thought running into another brick wall. He didn’t like Peter. Not like that. He couldn’t. He’d spent years making sure everyone knew how much he didn’t. And okay, fine, so maybe he’d paid a little too much attention to him sometimes - snapping at him in the halls, prodding at him in gym, needling until Peter snapped back. But that wasn’t-

 

That wasn’t because he liked him.

 

Jesus, if he liked him, that would make everything he’d ever done to Peter look even worse.

 

He wasn’t… like that. Not really. He wasn’t gay. And even if he was - if - then Peter Parker would be the last guy on earth he’d want. Too scrawny, too awkward, too much of a pain in the ass. The kind of guy who made him crazy in the worst way. Not his type. Not even close.

 

(So why had he done it? Why had he kissed him?)

 

Flash dug his fingers into his hair until his scalp ached. He didn’t have an answer. His stomach twisted. His brain kept looping back to the moment like it wanted to make him suffer. The split-second stiffness, the way Peter had locked up like he was about to punch him in the face - and then, then, the way he’d melted. Just folded into the kiss like it was the most natural thing in the world. Grabbed at Flash like he couldn’t get close enough, like Flash was the only thing keeping him standing.

 

And that was the part that was messing him up the most.

 

Because he could still feel it if he let himself. The weight of Peter leaning into him, the heat of his mouth, the way his fingers had curled in Flash’s shirt, desperate, like he needed it. Like he wanted it. Like he wanted him. Flash scrubbed a hand over his face, swore under his breath. His chest felt tight, claustrophobic. He hated that he remembered it so clearly. Hated that he wanted to remember it. Hated that it felt… good.

 

He wasn’t supposed to feel good about kissing Peter Parker.

 

Because if Peter was already doing that - if he was already messing around with older guys for money, like Flash had half-convinced himself - then the kiss didn’t mean anything. It was just practice for Peter. Just another notch in whatever screwed-up life he was running behind the scenes. 

 

It hadn’t made Flash feel better. It had made him feel worse.

 

Because the truth was, he hadn’t kissed Peter to shut him up, or to piss him off, or even to win the argument. He’d kissed him because - for one second - he hadn’t known what else to do. Peter was snapping, and Flash had felt so wound up, so frustrated, so goddamn helpless that he’d just… done it. Grabbed him, pulled him in, kissed him hard enough to shut them both up.

 

And for that one stupid second, it had worked.

 

Now, he was pacing his room like an idiot, his chest aching, every nerve in his body buzzing like he’d stuck his finger in a socket. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to take it back. He wanted to do it again.

 

God, he was so screwed.

 

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t about wanting. He didn’t want Parker. He just… wanted him to stop looking like that all the time. Like he was about to shatter into pieces and nobody else even noticed. That’s what he told himself. That it was for Peter. That he’d kissed him to make him feel better.

 

Because clearly Peter liked dick if he was so willing to just-

 

Flash flinched at his own thought. He hated himself instantly for it. That was the kind of thing assholes said. He knew better. But it was easier than admitting the other thing - the real thing - that the kiss had been for him. Because for one blinding second, Peter hadn’t looked like he hated him. He’d looked like he needed him. And that had lit something up inside Flash that he didn’t want to think about too hard.

 

So he doubled down on being a dick. He stormed out, slammed the door behind him, because if he didn’t, he might actually have to deal with the fact that he liked it. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t like kissing Peter Parker. Not when everything about Peter was a mess. Not when every time Flash tried to help, it blew up in his face. Not when Peter looked like he was one bad day away from collapsing and Flash couldn’t stop circling around him anyway.

 

He told himself it was pity. Or maybe guilt. Or maybe he was just addicted to picking at things until they bled. That had to be it. That made sense.

 

But he still didn’t know why the hell his hands had grabbed Peter like that, why he’d hauled him in and kissed him like he had something to prove, like kissing Parker of all people was going to solve a damn thing. He wasn’t in love with him. Obviously. He wasn’t - he wasn’t even gay. And if he was, he sure as hell wouldn’t have picked Parker. Jesus. If someone lined up every guy in school and told him he had to kiss one, Peter Parker wouldn’t even be in the running. He wouldn’t even make the backup list. So why the fuck had he-

 

The only thing that made sense, if he squinted hard enough, was that it had been for Peter. Not for him. Not because he wanted it. He’d done it because Peter looked like he was about to break in half, all strung-out shoulders and brittle eyes, and Flash - God, he hated himself - Flash had wanted to do something to make it stop.

 

And if Peter melted into him that easily, well… maybe it was what he wanted, right? Maybe he needed it. Maybe that was the only reason Flash had done it. Not because he wanted to kiss him, but because Peter wanted it.

 

Yeah. Sure. That had to be it.

 

Because it wasn’t like Flash had wanted the way Peter’s hands had fisted in his shirt. He hadn’t wanted the way Peter had pressed back, mouth clumsy but desperate, like he was drowning and Flash was the air. He hadn’t wanted any of that. Except he had, and the memory burned like acid under his skin. 

 

Flash sat back hard against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. His stomach turned. The lie wasn’t sticking anymore. The more he tried to tell himself it wasn’t about him, the clearer the truth got in his head. He’d wanted it. He’d wanted Peter. And Jesus Christ, he didn’t know how to live with that. It made everything before curdle, every insult and shove and cruel little nickname. He hadn’t just been an asshole for no reason - he’d been an asshole because it was easier to bite than admit the pull. He’d been ripping Peter down to keep from realizing he wanted him close.

 

The shame of that sat heavy in his throat, choking.

 

And still - he couldn’t stop replaying the kiss.

 

Couldn’t stop remembering the way Peter had melted against him, like maybe, maybe, Flash hadn’t been the only one holding something back all this time. The thought twisted like a knife. Because if Peter had wanted it, too - then what? What the hell was Flash supposed to do with that? He’d already messed it up. Now there was no taking it back.

 

Maybe Peter just wanted it for the money. Maybe Peter thought Flash would pay him for it.

 

He shoved the thought down deep, buried it where he buried everything else he didn’t want to look at. Told himself it was nothing, a mistake, just a stupid impulse in the heat of an argument. Told himself it didn’t mean anything. Told himself he didn’t want it to.

 

But when he lay down later, staring at the ceiling with his stomach knotted, all he could feel was the ghost of Peter’s mouth against his, the desperate clutch of his hands. The way it had felt like - for once - he was doing something right. And that was the part that was going to destroy him. He could still feel it if he let himself. The split-second stiffness, like Peter was going to shove him away, and then - God, and then he’d melted. Just folded into the kiss, grabbed Flash like he couldn’t get close enough.

 

And that was the part that was messing him up the most.

 

Because what the hell was that supposed to mean? If Peter wanted nothing to do with him, if he didn’t trust him, if he was just going to keep every goddamn thing locked away, then why the hell had he kissed back? Why had he pulled him closer?

 

Flash flopped backward, staring up at the ceiling, his hands pressed over his face again like he could block the memory out. He couldn’t. It was there, vivid and stubborn, the heat of it, the way Peter’s breath had hitched, the way his hands had moved - desperate, almost.

 

He let his arms fall to the sides, staring at the cracks in the plaster. “Whatever,” he muttered to no one. It came out hollow.

 

He didn’t need Peter. He didn’t need his half-truths or his dodged questions or that frustratingly perfect face he kept replaying in his head. He didn’t need someone who would shut him out, who would choose to shut him out, after everything.

 

Except… his chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with anger.

 

He sat up again, too restless to stay still. Maybe Peter had a reason. Maybe there was something awful he didn’t want to say. But that didn’t make it any easier to be left standing there like an idiot, to feel like he’d given more than he should have and gotten nothing back.

 

Fine. Screw it. If Peter didn’t want to talk, then Flash wasn’t going to keep banging his head against the wall. He could keep his secrets. He could keep whatever the hell that kiss was supposed to mean.

 

Flash wasn’t going to be the one sitting around waiting for an explanation that was never coming.

 

…Except he already was.

 

He shoved that thought down hard, the same way he’d shoved down a hundred others over the last few months. Pulled his phone out, scrolled without really looking at the screen, let the noise of meaningless notifications fill the silence.

 

But his hands still remembered the shape of Peter’s face. And no amount of pretending he didn’t care was making that go away.

 

—

 

Peter knew it was a terrible idea the second the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion - horrible, inevitable, and kind of mesmerizing.

 

“I kissed Flash,” he said flatly.

 

The cafeteria noise buzzed on around them, trays clattering, kids laughing. But at their little corner table, silence dropped like a hammer. Ned froze mid–cheese puff. MJ, across from him, blinked once, very slowly, like maybe she’d misheard. 

 

Peter shoved a hand through his hair, groaning. “I know. Don’t look at me like that.”

 

“Like what?” MJ asked, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Like you’ve finally lost every last functioning brain cell?”

 

“Exactly like that,” Peter muttered, stabbing at his fries with unnecessary aggression. “It was dumb, okay? Really dumb. We fought, and now we’re not talking. Which is great. Perfect. Amazing. Love that for me.”

 

“You kissed Flash Thompson,” MJ repeated, her expression stuck somewhere between horrified and morbidly fascinated. “Of all people.”

 

“It wasn’t - it wasn’t like a thing,” Peter snapped, heat rushing up his neck. “It just… happened.”

 

Ned set his soda down carefully, like he needed both hands free to process the catastrophe. “You kissed Flash.”  

 

Peter slumped forward, scowling at his tray. “You guys don’t understand. It was-” He broke off, gesturing vaguely. “-dumb.”

 

MJ snorted. “No, we understand perfectly. What we don’t understand is why your taste in men is consistently catastrophic.”

 

Peter groaned again, louder this time, dragging his hoodie up over half his face.

 

Ned reached across the table, put his hand gently over Peter’s in a gesture so sincere Peter almost relaxed. The warmth was nice, the seriousness in Ned’s eyes oddly comforting. And then Ned said, in a voice full of gravitas, “Peter, you’re making me homophobic right now.”

 

A strangled noise tore out of Peter before he could stop it - half laugh, half miserable snort. He let his forehead thunk down onto the table with a dull thud, muffling, “I hate you both.”

 

MJ calmly speared one of his fries. “You should.”

 

Ned squeezed his hand, still earnest despite the betrayal. “We’re only saying this because we care.”

 

Peter didn’t lift his head. “Next time I’ll just suffer in silence.”

 

“You should,” MJ agreed again, chewing.

 

—

 

Peter knew Flash was ignoring him.

 

It wasn’t just in the way he didn’t make eye contact - though that stung enough on its own - it was in the way he kept his head tilted away, his pace just slightly faster than it needed to be, his shoulders hunched in that stubborn, I’m-not-even-listening posture that was designed to make Peter’s stomach knot. He’d been trying for days now to smooth it over, to find the right words that didn’t sound like excuses, but the truth was there wasn’t a version of this conversation where Flash wouldn’t still be hurt.

 

And he was hurt. Peter could see it in the tension in his jaw every time they passed each other in the hallway, in the stiffness in his voice when he did have to say something.

 

Today, though, Peter couldn’t just let him walk off again.

 

He stepped up beside him, matching his pace in the crowded hallway. “Look, I’m sorry,” he started, the words coming out quicker than he’d intended. His voice felt tight, too high. “I can’t tell you. But it’s not - it’s not something you need to worry about.”

 

Flash didn’t even glance over. “Whatever.” He said it like the word itself was nothing. Like Peter was nothing. He didn’t slow down.

 

Peter swallowed hard and kept walking, pushing past the prickling embarrassment that crept up the back of his neck. “So it’s okay, right? I mean-” his voice stumbled over itself, “-I know you’re… I missed you when you left. I’m sorry it ended bad. And, uh, thank you. For bringing my homework. I, um, I have your chem book? From when you brought me notes? I didn’t know if you wanted me to stop by your house or not, because I didn’t want to, like, intrude or anything, but-”

 

He didn’t know why he was rambling like this, only that the silence from Flash felt heavier with each second. He could almost hear his own heartbeat, too loud in his ears as he tried to keep his tone casual. If he could just get Flash to respond maybe they could go back to how it was before.

 

But Flash didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t react. Just took his book back without looking and kept walking.

 

Peter’s mouth was dry, his throat aching with words he didn’t know how to shape. “It’s-” he tried again, but the noise of the hallway swallowed him up until Flash finally turned to face him.

 

The suddenness of it made Peter falter mid-step.

 

“Do you need something?” Flash snapped, his tone sharp enough to make Peter flinch. His eyes were hard, and there was no warmth in them at all.

 

Peter winced, taking half a step back. “I - sorry. No. I just - I just wanted to talk to you.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Flash’s voice was flat, each syllable deliberate. “I wanted someone who’s honest with me.”

 

That hit harder than Peter was prepared for. It made his chest feel tight, like the words had physically wedged themselves between his ribs. He tried for something that might soften the blow, but all he could manage was, “Can we talk?”

 

“I’m good,” Flash said, not even pausing. “Don’t need to talk to you right now.”

 

“Flash-” Peter reached out before he could think better of it, but Flash just shoved past him, the movement firm enough to jolt Peter back a step.

 

And then he was gone.

 

Peter stood there, watching the back of his head disappear into the stream of students, feeling stupid for chasing him down, stupid for thinking maybe today would be different. The hallway noise pressed in from all sides, but all Peter could really hear was that last flat dismissal, echoing like a door slamming shut.

 

He let out a slow breath, but it didn’t do much to ease the ache in his chest.

 

—

 

Peter stared at the envelope again. It was sitting on the kitchen counter, crooked under the magnet shaped like a laughing pineapple, the same one May always used for bills. His stomach had been in knots since he saw it that morning, and every time he glanced at the damn thing he felt the same creeping rush of shame burn up his throat.

 

FINAL NOTICE.

 

The words might as well have been written in neon, might as well have screamed out you’re failing, you’re failing, you’re failing. He hadn’t been able to look at it for more than two seconds without feeling like the air in his chest got stuck halfway down. Rent hadn’t gone up. Groceries had been thinner lately, sure, but he was still bringing home containers from the lab whenever he could - whatever Tony hadn’t eaten, whatever Peter could stomach without feeling guilty. They hadn’t gone out anywhere. He hadn’t bought anything. Nothing had changed.

 

But the money was going.

 

That was the part that made him dizzy if he thought about it too long. He didn’t know exactly how much May usually had tucked away, but he wasn’t stupid. He could see the way her mouth got tight when she opened her wallet at the store. He could hear the strain in her voice when she answered calls in the other room. She wasn’t saying it to him directly, but the stress clung to the apartment like humidity - sticky, inescapable, heavy.

 

May was already stretched thin, already working doubles, already picking up shifts she shouldn’t have to. She was the one holding everything together while Peter disappeared into the night, while he skipped meals, while he came home bruised and tired and blamed it on an “internship.”  

 

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. They burned.

 

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

 

He wanted to tell himself it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t asked for any of this, that people whispering in the halls and offering him folded-up bills like they were asking for homework answers wasn’t something he’d started. He didn’t need that. He needed his job at the cafe, his lab night with Mr. Stark. He didn’t need anything else.

 

His hands clenched into fists.

 

He dropped the notice and disappeared into his room. He changed, did his homework and tried not to think of Flash. He tried not to feel guilty about missing patrol, but he was just so hungry and so tired that he just wanted to curl up and sleep.

 

May’s footsteps were soft outside his door. She hadn’t said anything to him yet, but he could feel it - her worry pressing in through the walls, her exhaustion dragging at every syllable when she reminded him to eat, to rest, to not stay up too late. She deserved better than this. Better than a kid she didn’t ask for who  ate all their food and couldn’t even keep their heads above water. 

 

Peter pulled the blanket over his face and curled tighter. His chest ached. His head was full of static. He wanted to cry, but nothing came out. Just the same ugly churn in his stomach and the knowledge that he couldn’t tell anyone - not Ned, not MJ, not Mr. Stark. Not Flash.

 

Especially not May.

 

Because she was already drowning, and Peter had been the one pushing her deeper.

 

—

 

Peter had always been good at waiting things out. Bruises faded. Cuts closed. Patrols slowed down when the weather got bad, and Midtown’s teachers eventually stopped calling on him when he zoned out. Things passed. Time smoothed over sharp edges if you let it. But this wasn’t smoothing. This was sitting in the jagged teeth of silence for a week straight, every hallway glance and avoided look twisting like barbed wire in his chest.

 

Flash was pissed. Peter had seen him pissed before - had lived with it for years - but this was different. This wasn’t hallway shoves and sneers that bounced right off him now. This was pointed absence. A cold shoulder sharp enough that Peter felt it even across the cafeteria.

 

And Peter had deserved it. He’d felt that truth with every hour that ticked by since Flash had stormed out of his apartment, since that final “whatever” had slammed into him harder than the door had. He couldn’t explain, couldn’t give Flash what he wanted, but that didn’t stop the guilt from chewing him hollow.

 

So a week later, Peter found himself standing outside Flash’s door, knuckles hovering in the air like maybe he could just… not. Maybe he could go home, tell himself it wasn’t his problem, that Flash would be fine. That Flash didn’t actually need him. But Flash had been there, hadn’t he? Hand on his arm, pressing for  answers, trying in his own broken, infuriating way to help. Flash had seen the bruises, the cuts and the fevers, and he hadn’t laughed. He’d only wanted to understand. And Peter had shut him out anyway.

 

Peter’s hand dropped and knocked before he could change his mind. Three sharp raps. Too loud. He winced.

 

There was a beat of silence, then muffled footsteps. The door cracked open, chain still on. Flash’s face appeared in the gap, eyes narrowing the second they landed on him.

 

Peter tried a smile. It felt weak on his face. “Hey.”

 

Flash didn’t move. “What are you doing here?” His voice was flat, tired.

 

Peter shifted on his feet, backpack strap digging into his shoulder. “Study day,” he said, aiming for casual. “It’s Friday. You didn’t cancel.”

 

Flash’s jaw worked. “Ignoring you wasn’t a good enough hint?”

 

“Guess not,” Peter admitted, with a shrug that he hoped looked lighter than the weight in his chest felt. “I’ve never been, you know… people-smart.”

 

For a second, he thought the door would slam in his face. But then Flash huffed - half laugh, half exasperated breath - and the chain slid free. The door opened all the way. “You’re pathetic,” Flash muttered.

 

“Probably,” Peter said, because yeah.

 

He stepped inside, grateful even as the pit in his stomach didn’t ease. Flash’s room looked the same as always - messy, but in a lived-in way, clothes draped over the desk chair, half-drained Gatorade bottles crowding the nightstand.

 

Flash dropped onto his bed, leaning back on his hands like Peter wasn’t worth more than half his attention. “What do you want, Parker?”

 

Peter set his backpack down by the desk. “I figured I’d… help you with your homework. I know we got that new assignment for Chem, and it’s not exactly easy.” He tried to twist it into a joke, something wry, self-deprecating. It came out a little too quiet.

 

Flash eyed him like he was trying to see through him. But then he gave a small, sharp shrug. “Fine.”

 

It wasn’t forgiveness. But it wasn’t kicking him out, either.

 

Peter unpacked his notebook, laid out the packets Flash had dropped at his apartment, like maybe if he just acted normal, things could be normal. The air was tense, sharp around the edges, but he forced himself to focus, to talk Flash through the first couple of problems.

 

Flash followed along, pencil scratching, but his shoulders were stiff, the lines of his body tight. When Peter leaned over, pointing at where he’d mixed up two steps in the math, Flash went even tenser.

 

He’d leaned in because Flash had written the equation wrong again - same stupid math error that Peter had corrected twice already - and it was easier to just reach across the desk, drag his pen down the side of the paper, and rewrite the line himself than to try explaining it for the third time. He was tired. He had too much homework waiting at home. He was hungry enough that his stomach kept making these quiet, traitorous noises against the desk edge. And honestly, he just didn’t have the patience to coddle Flash’s stubborn brain today.

 

So he leaned in, muttering something about no, no, you drop the coefficient here, their shoulders bumping because the desks were too close together, and he didn’t think about how close his face was to Flash’s until Flash went stock-still.

 

It was like watching someone freeze mid-glitch. One second Flash was scribbling annoyed little chicken scratch, and the next he was upright, rigid, his pencil hovering over the page like it had been super-glued there.

 

Peter froze. His breath caught and he winced, pulling back quick. The weight of Flash’s shoulders went rigid, jaw tightening in that split-second reaction that Peter’s spider-senses caught onto even if no one else would have noticed. It hit Peter right in the chest. Too much. Too close. Too intrusive.

 

He winced hard, pulling his hand back so quickly he nearly smudged the paper. 

 

“Sorry,” Peter whispered, his voice small, guilt dripping from every syllable before he could stop himself. He fumbled with his pen like it was suddenly burning his fingers, heart thudding in panic. “Sorry - I didn’t mean to, um, make you uncomfortable.”  

 

For one wild heartbeat, he thought Flash might just scoff, maybe roll his eyes, maybe mutter something cruel the way he used to. The anticipation of that kind of dismissal gnawed at Peter’s nerves, made him want to shrink down and disappear into his chair, bury himself under the desk until this horrible heat of embarrassment burned itself out.

 

But that wasn’t what happened.

 

Flash surged forward instead. The movement was sharp, fast, angry in its precision, like he’d been holding back too long. Peter’s head jerked back in surprise just as Flash’s hand caught his cheek, and before his brain could string two thoughts together Flash was kissing him.

 

Not soft. Not hesitant. Furious.

 

Peter squeaked. Actually squeaked, like some kind of startled mouse. His pen clattered onto the desk, rolling uselessly toward the edge while his thoughts crashed into each other with wild static. His lips parted on instinct, too stunned to process, and Flash’s mouth slanted against his in a way that felt like he was trying to shove every unspoken word, every frustrated noise, every furious denial of Peter’s apology straight into him.

 

Peter melted.

 

All the tightness in his chest, all the panic fizzing through his nerves, broke apart in an instant, replaced by a dizzy wash of heat. His hands scrambled uselessly at the desk, then at Flash’s hoodie, tugging, grasping, trying to anchor himself as his body betrayed him completely. His legs shifted closer, his chest pressed forward, like every part of him was desperate to soak in this contact no matter how messy and angry it was. He was practically being hauled into Flash’s lap as the other boy pressed him against the desk, slotting in between his thighs.

 

Flash kissed him harder, frustration burning through every press of his mouth, every sharp exhale against Peter’s lips. It wasn’t neat, it wasn’t controlled - it was biting and furious, like he wanted to shake Peter apart and put him back together at the same time. His hand fisted in Peter’s hoodie, dragging him closer, and Peter’s head spun, his heart stuttering so fast it was almost painful.

 

Somewhere between the squeak and the dizzying heat flooding his chest, Peter forgot how to breathe. His eyes fluttered shut and the world tilted, narrowed down to the furious press of lips and the way Flash’s grip felt like it was keeping him tethered to the earth. He gasped against Flash’s mouth, a broken sound that wasn’t quite words, and leaned further.

 

When the chair scraped suddenly against the floor, Peter didn’t even register what was happening until his there were arms under his legs and his back hit the mattress with a thud, books scattering, notebooks sliding across the floor as Flash hauled him off the desk. Then he was following without hesitation, crawling on top of him with a weight that stole the rest of Peter’s breath entirely. His hands framed Peter’s face now, rough but still careful, thumbs brushing his jaw as if trying to hold him still.

 

Peter made another helpless sound against his mouth, muffled and shaky, and grabbed fistfuls of Flash’s hoodie, and heat spread in frantic bursts through his chest, into his arms, his throat, his face - it was overwhelming, terrifying, and yet all he could think was more, more, more.

 

Flash kissed him like he was furious that Peter didn’t trust him, like every press of lips was an argument. Flash kissed like he was mad at him. Which - okay, fair, Peter probably deserved it. Every movement was rough, impatient, lips sliding too hard against Peter’s, teeth catching on his bottom lip until Peter gasped, and for a second it was all so overwhelming he thought he might actually cry from how much he wanted this.

 

Flash pulled back for half a breath, eyes wide and wild, and muttered against his mouth, “God, you’re such a pain in the ass, Parker-”

 

Peter laughed, breathless, tugged him back down. “Shut up.”

 

And Flash did. He shut up, and he kissed Peter like that was the only language they had left. For a while, there was nothing else, no fight, no bruises, no cutting words. Just the slip and drag of mouths pressed hard together, the heat between them rising quick and sharp like fire catching on dry kindling.

 

Peter’s hands roamed with a nervous determination, sliding up until his palms pressed flat against Flash’s shoulders, feeling the warm, solid weight beneath the hoodie. He clung, holding on like the only thing keeping him steady was the pull of Flash’s mouth on his. The dizzy edge of it all made him giddy, almost drunk, and his heart battered against his ribs like it might break free.

 

Because Peter could fix this. Flash was kissing him. He was doing something right.

 

Somewhere in the blur of lips and teeth and gasped-out breaths, Peter’s fingers curled under Flash’s hoodie, tugging. He hesitated, nerves prickling hot in his chest, but the sight of Flash’s dark eyes, the way his lips looked swollen and kiss-raw, pushed him forward. The fabric bunched up under Peter’s fists as he dragged it higher, until Flash grunted against his mouth and yanked it over his head himself, tossing it somewhere behind them without a second thought.

 

Peter’s hands slid across bare skin now, shoulders and chest and the steady warmth of him, fingers skimming the curve of muscle like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. Flash’s hands had already found their way under Peter’s shirt in return, rough palms dragging up the length of his sides, fingertips brushing the skin of his waist. Peter shivered and gasped into the kiss, jerking closer without even meaning to.

 

Closer. That was all he wanted. More of this, more of the rush that drowned out everything else.

 

When Flash pressed closer, trying to erase even the breath of space between them, he felt it - hot and insistent, pressed up against the curve of his ass. Peter broke on a startled, warbly sound, half-gasp, half-whimper, the noise so sharp and vulnerable it seemed to tear straight through him. Flash carefully rolled his hips, grinding in slow, deliberate friction, and Peter squirmed helplessly.

 

“You like that?” Flash murmured, his mouth dragging against the shell of Peter’s ear, low and almost cruel in its confidence.

 

Peter’s answer wasn’t words. Just another broken little noise that made his stomach lurch with want, humiliation, something sour and sweet all tangled together. Peter tried to grind back, needy, desperate, but their positions left him at a disadvantage. Flash had him pinned against the mattress with all the leverage, and God, Peter wanted it. Wanted this. Wanted to let go of everything that had been gnawing at him for weeks. He wanted distraction so badly it felt like hunger.

 

So he leaned into it, into Flash’s body, into the terrible comfort of letting himself be held and touched like this. He kissed him back with all of it, reckless and starved, like he could carve out a hollow in Flash’s mouth and crawl inside.

 

And Flash kissed him like he’d been waiting years for Peter to finally crack. His hand slid up, gripped the back of Peter’s head, fingers twisting hard into his hair until it stung. He held him there, firm and unyielding, and kissed him rougher, angrier, and Peter clung anyway. He melted into it, let himself drown, let himself be consumed by the furious comfort of being wanted. His chest pressed tight to Flash’s, his hands sliding up under Flash’s shirt like he needed to touch, and Flash didn’t push him off. He pulled him in tighter, teeth scraping his bottom lip, dragging another sound out of Peter’s throat that was so humiliatingly raw it made his ears burn.

 

This was a mistake. The worst idea either of them had ever had. Peter knew it, felt it in every warning signal blaring at the back of his mind. But none of that mattered when Flash’s hand tugged his hair harder, not when the heat of his body pressed flush against his own, not when kissing him like this turned every sharp, unbearable thought into static.

 

And that, more than anything, was what Peter clung to - the silence in his own head, the drowning weight of want swallowing every jagged edge whole.

 

He wanted to lose himself in it, to let it swallow every thought that had been gnawing at him for weeks. He wanted distraction so badly it felt like hunger.

 

Flash didn’t even think before his hand slid lower. He was already holding Peter close, already gripping his hair hard enough that Peter couldn’t do much except shiver against him, so it felt natural, inevitable, to shove the other hand down past his waistband. Peter yelped at the contact, a sharp little twist running through his body as if he’d been jolted. Flash stilled instantly, breathing hard against his mouth, his fingers caught just inside the edge of denim.

 

But Peter didn’t push him away. Didn’t say no. He just made a sound - half startled, half embarrassed - like he hated being caught off guard but wasn’t about to stop it either. His hips shifted, not quite steady, nervous in a way that made Flash hesitate.

 

“You okay?” Flash asked roughly.

 

Peter nodded too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I just-” His words cut off in a shaky laugh. “Sensitive.”

 

That was enough for Flash. He didn’t pull back. Instead, he cupped him more deliberately, let his hand press in slow, testing friction, the heat of it making Peter choke on another helpless noise. His whole body jerked, arching into it and then immediately twisting like he wasn’t sure which way he wanted to go. “You’re fine,” Flash muttered, almost like he was reassuring himself as much as Peter. “It’s fine.”

 

Peter swallowed, nodded again. And when Flash finally slid his hand fully into his pants, wrapping his fingers around him, Peter’s breath hitched high and broken. He pressed his face against Flash’s shoulder, trying to muffle the sound, but Flash didn’t pay it any mind. Peter’s hips jolted forward as Flash stroked him once, firm and certain, and Peter nearly buckled if he wasn’t already flat on his back, clinging to his shirt like he couldn’t decide whether to pull closer or push away.

 

Flash ground against him harder, pressing him back until their hips locked, until there was no space left between them. He kissed Peter rougher, teeth and tongue and too much, his hand working between them with single-minded intensity.

 

Peter clung, squirmed, and the hand in Peter’s hair tightened, forcing his head back so their mouths crushed together. His other hand pumped faster, greedier, chasing friction like he needed it to breathe. His own fingers fumbled at Flash’s belt, frantic, and then-

 

And then Flash said it.

 

It slipped out between breaths, murumured against the corner of Peter’s mouth, not quite teasing, not quite serious, more nervous than anything else. The words tangled low and awkward, like he wasn’t even thinking: “I… I don’t know what this is worth. I don’t know how much-”

Peter froze.

 

The words slammed through the haze of heat and want like a bucket of ice water. His body went rigid, every muscle snapping tense, his hands pressing against Flash’s chest before he’d even thought about it.

 

“What?” His voice cracked, sharp, startled. He shoved harder, just enough space between them to see Flash’s face. His stomach lurched, heat turning instantly sour as he scrambled a little further up Flash’s bed to put some space between them. “What the hell - did you just-?”

 

Flash blinked, caught.  

 

“You think-” Peter’s voice broke again, higher now, angrier. His cheeks burned. “You think I’d do this with you for money?” Flash flinched. He didn’t answer right away, and that hesitation was the worst part. Peter shoved harder, scrambling out from under him. His chest heaved as he got his feet under himself, backing a step away. His hands shook. “Are you serious right now?”

 

“Dude,” Flash tried, sitting up, palms open like he was placating him. “It’s - just calm down-”

 

Peter’s laugh cracked, sharp and ugly. “Calm down? Calm down? You just - you kissed me - and then - you think this is some kind of - transaction?” His throat felt raw, eyes stinging. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t - I don’t do that! I’m not - I wouldn’t-” His breath hitched. “God, what is wrong with you?”

 

Flash stared, mouth working like he couldn’t find the words.

 

“Fuck you,” Peter spat, voice breaking. His hands clenched at his sides. “I - I came here because - I wanted to say I was sorry, okay? Because I missed you. Because I thought you actually might believe me when I told you I didn’t do that. But apparently that was too much to ask.” His vision blurred, tears burning, humiliation clawing up hot in his throat. “Do you honestly think I kissed you because I wanted your money?”

 

For half a second, Flash didn’t say anything. Just stared at him. And Peter saw it - the flicker in his eyes, the hesitation, the kind of.

 

That was it. That was the knife between the ribs.

 

Peter’s breath stuttered, and then he was moving, furious and humiliated, snatching his scattered notebooks up with clumsy, shaking hands. The pages crumpled, corners tearing as he stuffed them back into his bag without caring if anything bent. His pulse pounded in his ears, a ringing roar.

 

“Wait-” Flash started, standing halfway, reaching out like he could grab him back. “Peter-”

 

“Don’t,” Peter snapped, voice rough and wet. “Don’t even - just - don’t.”

 

He slung his bag over his shoulder, refusing to look at him, and shoved toward the door. His hands were shaking so badly it took two tries to get the handle. And then he yanked it open, storming out into the hall, the slam echoing down the corridor behind him.

 

Flash’s voice followed, muffled, apologizing, calling his name. But Peter didn’t look back. He didn’t stop. His eyes burned too hot, his throat too tight, and the humiliation chased him all the way down the hall, until the sound of the slammed door was the only thing he could cling to.

 

Notes:

im. so sorry. L for everyone involved but i can fix them i pinky promise

but FLASH WHATTT

"im not gay. but if I DID want to kiss dudes Peter wouldnt be on that list. the list i already have of dudes i want to kiss. and he wouldnt be on the BACKUP list of dudes i want to kiss either."

bro. ur gay im sorry ur in fucking NARNIA atp get out of the closet whore

Chapter 9: sacrifices

Summary:

Peter had always hated Mondays, but this one was worse.

Notes:

oh boy. fucking, yikes. check tws besties because this one is ROUGH

Peter had always hated Mondays, but this one was worse. 

 

He could feel it in the way the air shifted around him as he walked through Midtown’s front doors. He was more tired than usual, but that didn’t stop his stupid enhanced hearing from picking up the whispers and sharp bursts of laughter whenever he passed. He felt it in the way people looked at him - different than before, more lingering, more evaluative, like they were trying to measure something invisible against the curve of his face, the line of his body.

 

The strange stares in the halls all week had already made his skin crawl. The sidelong glances were just slippery enough to slip beneath his ribs and nest there. He could pretend it was about the fight with Flash if he wanted - tell himself people were just shocked he’d actually thrown a punch for once - but it didn’t line up with the way people’s eyes clung to him. Not to his face, not even to his bruised jaw.

 

Lower. Always lower.

 

He kept telling himself it didn’t matter. He had survived worse. A few rumors in high school were nothing compared to the things he’d already made it through. He had work to focus on, homework to hand in, a hundred other things more important than whether some sophomore snickered behind their hand. Besides, it had already been a week or two since the fight. How long did rumors really last? He could survive a few whispers.

 

Except it wasn’t just whispers.

 

By second period, he’d already had two people come up to him in the hall, voices too low and too careful, asking things like “so, is it true?” or “I heard you, like, do stuff - how much?” One of them had laughed in his face when he said no. The other had just looked at him, eyes squinted, before shrugging like Peter had missed a chance to make a deal.

 

His skin prickled from the stares. He tried to shake it off, but his stomach twisted tighter with every passing glance.

 

By the time lunch rolled around, he was wound like wire. He dropped into a seat at the edge of the cafeteria, shoulders hunched, trying to vanish into the crowd. Ned kept throwing him worried glances. MJ looked like she was one second away from stabbing someone again, and honestly, Peter was grateful for her. But the moment he caught their concern, something in his chest clenched too tight, and he told them he had to go to his locker.

 

Which was a mistake.

 

By the time he reached his locker, the air felt so heavy he could barely breathe through it.

 

He kept his head down, fingers fumbling with the dial, trying to focus on the numbers instead of the weight of people watching. He thought maybe if he just ignored it and looked smaller, quieter, more invisible, then it would pass.

 

That was when the shadow fell across him.

 

He was shoving books into his bag when someone leaned on the locker next to his. Close enough that Peter felt the warmth of their arm brush his shoulder, close enough that it sent a jolt up his spine before he even looked.

 

“Hey,” the voice said, low, too casual, too close to his ear.

 

Peter startled, jerking his head up. For half a second his chest loosened when his brain supplied Ned first, the automatic assumption, relief fluttering in his chest for a half-second - until he turned his head and saw someone older. A senior. He didn’t know the guy’s name. Tall, broad, with a grin that pulled crooked and knowing. “Uh.” Peter blinked. “Hey?”

 

The guy’s hand slid down, settling on the small of his back. A light pressure, but enough to freeze him in place.

 

Peter’s brain emptied out.

 

“Relax,” the senior said smoothly, fingers pressing lightly into the dip of Peter’s hip. His voice was easy, too easy, like this was a joke between friends instead of something that made Peter want to crawl out of his own skin. He leaned in just enough for his words to brush Peter’s ear. “Not gonna bite.”

 

Peter swallowed, throat dry. “What - what do you want?”

 

The grin sharpened. Peter didn’t know him, and now Peter didn’t like him. He was grinning like they were already sharing a joke. “Are the rumors true?” the guy asked.

 

“What?” Peter blurted. His voice cracked on it, sharp with panic, but the word still came out stupid, weak.

 

“You know.” The hand pressed a little firmer against his back, suggestive. “You… charge. For stuff.”

 

Every muscle in Peter’s body went rigid. His hand snapped his locker shut harder than he meant to, metal clanging. His other hand trembled, clenched too tight around the strap of his bag.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said quickly. His voice came out too thin, too brittle.

 

The guy’s hand slid lower on his back, fingertips pressing into the dip of his spine. “Come on,” the guy drawled. “Don’t play dumb. I’m not gonna judge. Just asking what your rate is.”

 

Peter’s brain stuttered. He slammed his locker shut, too hard, the clang ringing down the hall. His hands shook against the cool metal. He managed to croak out, “I - no, I don’t…” His mouth wouldn’t work right. The words tangled before they even left his throat. “That’s… not-” His voice cracked, so he cut himself off. He tried again. “That’s not - what do you even think I’m doing, exactly?”

 

The guy’s smile tilted, lazy, like Peter was trying to play innocent when the whole game was already set. “C’mon. Don’t make me say it.”

 

“I don’t-” Peter’s throat burned. He could feel eyes. He knew people were still watching, pretending not to, glancing sideways from down the hall.  

 

The guy leaned closer, close enough that Peter caught a whiff of some sharp cologne, too heavy, almost chemical. His voice dropped, too intimate for the crowded hallway. “You’re not subtle, Parker. Everybody knows. So quit acting like you don’t.”

 

Peter wanted to say something, anything, to snarl back with sharp teeth - but the words tangled. Because the guy’s confidence made his gut twist. Everybody knows. And maybe it wasn’t everybody, not yet, but rumors spread fast. He’d thought it was just gossip, but now he had strangers pinning him in the hallway, money offered like it was an afterschool deal, like buying weed or a fake ID.

 

Peter’s stomach twisted.

 

“You don’t need to lie,” the guy said again, patient, like a teacher repeating instructions to a stubborn kid. His hand hadn’t left Peter’s waist. “Easy money. Don’t tell me you’re above it, Parker. Not when I’ve heard otherwise.” Peter hated the way the words scraped. Heard otherwise. Like there were entire conversations happening about him, without him, mapping out who he was, what he did, what he cost. The hand at his waist didn’t move. If anything, it pressed firmer. “Don’t gotta be shy about it. I’m not judging. I think it’s kinda hot, actually.”

 

Peter froze, nausea clawing up the back of his throat. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears so loud it drowned out everything else. The hallway had gone quieter - he knew people were looking, watching, but he couldn’t make himself glance around to confirm it.

 

Peter swallowed hard. His voice came out low, almost strangled. “Why me?”

 

The guy laughed under his breath, like it was obvious. “Why not you?” He leaned in, his mouth brushing Peter’s ear when he murmured, “You’re pretty. Don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

 

Peter flinched, every muscle jerking tight. His hands balled into fists, not swinging, just clenching at his sides, trembling with the urge to hit or run or both. But he didn’t do either. He stayed pinned, the heat of the guy’s hand searing through the fabric of his shirt.

 

The guy leaned in, lowering his voice. “So what’s your price?”

 

Peter jerked his head around, eyes wide. “What?”

 

“How much?” The smirk sharpened, predatory. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those ‘donations only’ types. I’m asking straight up - what would it cost me?”

 

Peter’s stomach twisted. He should shove him off. He should tell him to back the hell up, that he wasn’t for sale, that he wasn’t - But the word caught there, sticking in his throat, because- 

 

Because they were short on rent again. Because May had looked so tired last night when she sat down with the bills, massaging her temples and sighing. Because the red “final notice” on the power bill was still sitting under a magnet on the fridge, like a clock ticking down.

 

His fingers clenched around the strap of his backpack, knuckles white.

 

Peter shook his head, trying to step away. The hand on his back shifted, fingers splaying like a trap. The guy leaned in closer, voice pitched low so it skimmed across Peter’s cheek. “How much do you charge?” Every thought fled at once. Peter’s hands shook. He backed away a step, heart hammering, heat flushing over his ears. The guy seemed to take his silence as hesitation. He leaned in closer, his voice low, coaxing. “Two hundred. Cash. Right now.”

 

Peter’s lungs locked.

 

The number rang in his ears. Two hundred dollars.

 

For a second all he could picture was the last overdue bill shoved under a stack of unopened mail. May at the kitchen table with the bills spread out - the red overdue notice for the power company, the tightness in her jaw as she tried to stretch groceries another week. His mouth tasted like copper. He should walk away. He knew he should. His entire body screamed for it, but his legs wouldn’t listen.

 

Two hundred could cover it. Two hundred would cover the electricity. Maybe groceries too. At least for a little while. But-

 

“I said I don’t-” Peter started, but his throat closed up around the words.

 

“Relax,” the guy repeated, like it was that simple. His grin widened, smug and sure. “Easy cash. You don’t even have to say anything. Just…” His hand shifted lower on Peter’s back, hovering at the edge of inappropriate. “You know.”

 

Peter’s stomach lurched. His skin crawled. He should shove him away. He should tell him to fuck off, to keep his hands to himself. He should - But the number echoed in his head.

 

Two hundred.

 

Two hundred. That was enough to cover the electric bill. Almost enough to buy them a little breathing room, even if just for a week. His brain split clean down the middle - one side screaming that this was wrong, that he couldn’t, that this was disgusting and humiliating and everything in him recoiled from it; the other whispering that May needed this, that she couldn’t keep working double shifts just to keep the lights on, that he could stomach anything if it meant helping her.

 

He could almost feel the bills in his pocket already, the weight of them against his thigh. He could see the look on May’s face when she realized the power wouldn’t get cut off after all. It was wrong. It was sick. His whole body screamed against it. But underneath the panic was a sharper, colder whisper: you need the money.

 

“Not interested,” Peter muttered, but it came out too thin, too shaky, and the guy caught the weakness in it like a shark scenting blood.

 

“Come on,” he coaxed, and it was worse than a taunt. He sounded patient, indulgent, like he was offering Peter a favor. “It’s just time. A couple minutes. You walk out cash in hand. No one has to know.”

 

Peter’s stomach rolled. People were still watching. He could feel them. Pretending not to, but their heads tilted just slightly, their whispers scraping behind his back. His throat worked. His hands curled into fists, nails cutting into his palms.

 

Two hundred dollars. That was groceries. That was keeping the lights on. That was May not having to sit up at midnight with a calculator, biting her lip until it bled. His chest burned. The guy’s hand slid off his waist, but only so he could pull out his wallet. He flashed the bills, crisp and green, and Peter’s eyes locked on them against his will.

 

“You don’t even have to pretend to like it,” the guy said easily. “I don’t care. Just keep your mouth shut and I’ll make it worth it.”  Peter’s lungs seized. He hated him. Hated every word. But his feet stayed planted. His eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet the guy’s. His tongue felt too heavy to move. The guy’s grin widened, sensing the give. His hand slid up, brushing Peter’s side. “C’mon. Easy money. Just a quick one. No one’s gonna know.”

 

“I…” His voice cracked again, barely audible.

 

“You’d do it for two-fifty, right?” the guy murmured, like they were already in the middle of a deal. Like Peter had agreed, or like he didn’t have a choice at all. His breath smelled like spearmint gum and cafeteria grease. “Two-fifty,” the guy repeated, eyes flicking over Peter’s face, then down - too far down. “That’s fair, right? I mean, Stark money and all, but I heard you didn’t exactly get paid for that internship.” 

 

He said it like a joke, like he expected Peter to laugh. Peter’s stomach lurched. His hand tightened on the strap of his backpack, knuckles whitening. He didn’t want to think about it like that, didn’t want to equate himself to some desperate solution to a bill they couldn’t pay. But he couldn’t stop. The guy must’ve seen something flicker across his face, because his smirk deepened, cruel and self-assured. 

 

“See? Not so hard, is it? You don’t even have to like it. Just say yes.” Peter’s mouth was dry. He wanted to snap, wanted to tell him to shut up, to shove him off. But his body didn’t move. He just stood there with his books clutched to his chest and his jaw tight, every muscle stiff. “C’mon,” the guy went on, grinning a little like he was charming. “Don’t gotta be weird about it. I’ll even pay up front.”

 

And then - like it was nothing, like this was just how life worked - he pulled a folded wad of bills from his pocket and fanned them slightly between his fingers. Not hundreds, not like in movies, but enough green that Peter’s brain skipped and stuck on the thought: that’s our ConEd bill right there. That’s next month’s groceries. That’s maybe enough to stop May from stressing herself sick over late notices.

 

The hallway around them blurred. Peter couldn’t tell who else might be watching, couldn’t tell if people were staring or whispering. His gaze locked on the bills.

 

He hated himself instantly for it.

 

He hated that his heartbeat spiked in a way that had nothing to do with fear. Hated that his first instinct wasn’t to shove the guy and walk away, it was to calculate. Two-fifty. Rent had jumped by almost that exact number last year. They were already late on utilities. He hadn’t said a word to May because she’d look at him with that tight smile, that don’t-worry-about-it smile, and then she’d go cry in the bathroom where she thought he couldn’t hear.

 

He always heard. His enhanced hearing made sure of it.

 

“Hey,” the guy said, leaning in closer when Peter didn’t answer right away. His hand brushed Peter’s waist like they were on a date or something. Peter flinched hard enough that his shoulder knocked into the locker. “Relax,” the guy chuckled, low. “You look like a deer in headlights. Don’t tell me you’re still shy.”

 

Peter’s throat worked, but no sound came out. His fingers were white-knuckled on his books, pressed to his chest like a shield.

 

Shy. That wasn’t it. Or maybe it was. Maybe he was terrified and humiliated and furious all at once. But under all of that was the sick, gnawing awareness of money. Of May’s tired face. Of the electricity shutting off. Of the empty fridge.

 

And that awareness felt heavier than his shame.

 

He didn’t nod. He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no, either. He just stood there, his silence an answer of its own.

 

Because... would it really hurt? If - if everyone already thought he was a sex worker, did it even matter anymore? Did it matter if he said yes or no? The only difference was that he'd be two hundred and fifty dollars richer, and no one's opinion of him would change. If he said no, he'd only be hurting May.

 

The guy grinned wider, like that was all he needed. Like Peter’s quiet was agreement, like he’d won something. “Thought so,” he said, tucking the money back into his pocket. “Bathroom after next period? Third floor. No one uses it.”

 

Peter’s stomach lurched. His skin prickled all over, cold sweat gathering under his collar. His mind screamed at him to say no, to stop this before it went any further. To remind himself he was Spider-Man, for God’s sake - he’d faced people with guns and stopped bad guys everyday - and now he was just standing here, letting some nobody senior make him feel this small?

 

But all Peter could think was: two-fifty. Two hundred and fifty dollars. That fixes everything, at least for a while.

 

He swallowed hard. His tongue was lead in his mouth. The words still wouldn’t come. Peter’s heart slammed against his ribs. His hands were trembling so badly he had to curl them into fists to hide it. He thought about May, about the way her hands had shaken when she set down her coffee mug yesterday. About the stack of bills on the table. About the looming dark if the power shut off.

 

Peter’s throat was dry. He tried to swallow, but it caught halfway, stuck like glass shards. He could still hear May’s voice from last night, too casual, too steady, when she told him not to worry about the electric bill. The way she smiled like she wasn’t terrified, like she hadn’t been rubbing at her temples for weeks, looking thinner every time he glanced at her.

 

His brain screamed at him to walk away. To ignore it, to pretend none of this was happening. He wasn’t that person. He wasn’t- 

 

But the number kept flashing behind his eyes. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Enough to matter. Enough to make him wonder if maybe - maybe just once- 

 

He felt dirty just for thinking it.

 

The guy must have sensed hesitation, because he pressed in closer, his hand drifting just enough to brush along Peter’s side. Not groping, not overt, but suggestive enough that Peter’s skin crawled. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Don’t waste my time. You know you could use it. And I’ve got the cash right now.”

 

Peter’s heart thudded in his chest, too loud, too heavy. His palms were damp against his backpack straps. Every instinct screamed danger, screamed wrong wrong wrong, but beneath it all was this grinding, nauseating weight of responsibility. May. The rent. The bills.

 

Two hundred and fifty.

 

The bills came back into focus when the guy’s hand shifted slightly on Peter’s waist, fingers dragging slow against his shirt like he was testing the fit of something expensive he wanted to buy.

 

And against every screaming instinct in his body, Peter nodded once, jerky, like his neck had locked up.  The guy must’ve seen something flicker in his face, because his grin turned smug. “That’s a yes?” Peter’s mouth opened. Closed. He couldn’t make himself say the word. His chest hurt with the force of it. But he didn’t walk away either. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The guy leaned in closer, breath warm against Peter’s ear. “I’ll see you then.”

 

He didn’t say yes. Not yet. But he also didn’t shove the guy off, didn’t tell him to back the hell up, didn’t storm away with the kind of righteous anger he wanted to feel. And the absence of that resistance was its own kind of answer, one the guy seemed to hear loud and clear.

 

“Good boy,” the senior murmured, so quiet Peter almost thought he imagined it.

 

Peter’s skin prickled. His jaw locked, his stomach churning, but he still didn’t move. Because for one split, damning second, he thought about May’s face if she opened the power bill and didn’t have to fake a smile. He thought about her looking at him and not realizing what he’d done.

 

And that was the thought that broke him.

 

His breath came in shallow pulls as he finally let himself nod - tiny, sharp, like it wasn’t really a choice but something dragged out of him. His voice sounded alien in his own ears when he forced it out, hoarse and thin. “Fine.”

 

The guy grinned, easy and satisfied, like he’d won something. “Knew you’d come around.”

 

Peter’s chest caved in around his heartbeat. His hands shook so badly he almost dropped his bag. His heart pounded so loud he was sure people around them could hear it, sure everyone in the hallway was staring, watching, knowing.

 

But no one looked twice.

 

The guy patted his side, casual, intimate, disgusting, and Peter just stood there, frozen, until the guy pulled away with that smug grin and sauntered off like he already owned him. Peter’s legs felt numb, but his hand in his pocket rubbed over the thin lining, imagining the crinkle of cash that wasn’t there yet. Peter stood frozen another thirty seconds, heart pounding too loud in his ears, and shouldered his bag.

 

Peter stayed glued to the locker, books still pressed to his chest, until his knees threatened to give. His lungs hurt, like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. Maybe he had.

 

You could just not go, a tiny voice in his head said. You could walk home. Pretend this never happened. Tell May everything’s fine. Pick up an extra patrol tonight and forget.

 

But that voice was drowned out by another: Two-fifty. Two-fifty. Two-fifty.

 

He held his bag strap a little firmer with shaking hands. A couple of freshmen down the hall glanced over and then whispered to each other. Peter ducked his head and forced his legs to move, even though his body felt like it was moving through molasses.

 

Two hundred and fifty.

 

He could still say no. He should say no. He knew that. He wasn’t stupid. This was wrong, dangerous, degrading, humiliating - he knew every reason to refuse, lined them up like equations in his head. And still, behind all of them, two hundred and fifty dollars glowed neon. Rent. Groceries. Keeping the lights on.

 

By the time the bell rang, he’d already made up his mind.

 

And he hated himself more for it than he thought was possible.

 

—

 

He didn’t remember walking to the bathroom. He only remembered the stall door closing behind him, the lock clicking, the sound of his own breathing bouncing off tile.

 

The bathroom was half–lit, the kind of fluorescent glare that hummed faintly above his head and made the walls look jaundiced. The stall door rattled with a hollow sound as Peter sat there with his back pressed against it, palms flat against the cold, chipped paint. His heart hadn’t slowed down yet. It still spasmed unevenly in his chest, stuttering every time he replayed the offer in his head, the way the bills had flashed green in his hand like a stoplight turned backwards - go, go, go, every signal screaming at him to move forward with it.

 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the money. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Folded neat. A ridiculous amount and also not nearly enough. The kind of number that felt like it should stretch forever but he knew in practice would barely cover overdue electricity, or at least enough groceries for a couple weeks if they stretched it. That was the part that kept circling back and back and back - that the money was already spent in his head. Already leaving his hands, even though it wasn’t even in his pocket yet.

 

His body felt weirdly detached, like his mind was two steps behind whatever his mouth and muscles had agreed to. He’d walked into the stall because the guy had steered him there, casual as anything, like this was normal, like they were just cutting class. He hadn’t even fought it, really. He’d felt the hand on his shoulder guiding, and his legs had carried him forward on autopilot.

 

The lock slid into place with a soft scrape, and suddenly it was too quiet. His ears were full of the blood rushing in them, pounding hot. His fingers wouldn’t stop fidgeting, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, twisting, then flattening.

 

Peter didn’t even hear the first words the guy said to him. His ears were full of static, the same kind of white-hot rush that came when he was about to pick a fight, except there wasn’t any fight to have here. Just a voice close to his ear, too close, with the kind of casual tone that made his skin crawl.

 

When the guy reached for him and pressed his shoulders down to get him to kneel, it was clumsy. Too casual. He was older - definitely a senior - taller, broader. His grin looked wrong this close, stretched and lazy, like he’d done this before. Like Peter wasn’t a person so much as a joke he’d bought into.

 

Peter’s stomach knotted.

 

You said yes. The thought was acid, burning. You nodded, you let him lead you in here. You’re the one doing this.

 

He closed his eyes almost instantly, because looking made it worse. Looking made him see the grimy tile, the way the dude crowded him into the corner of the stall, the way the world shrunk down to the smell of cheap cologne and bathroom cleaner and sweat. With his eyes closed, at least he could pretend - pretend it wasn’t real, pretend it wasn’t happening. Pretend it was just noise, just motion. Just a zipper being pulled down, and his jaw being pressed open, and-

 

He tried to think of anything else. Rent overdue. Aunt May sighing over the bills last night, saying she’d figure it out, though her voice had cracked halfway through. The fridge shelf empty except for condiments and the sad remains of a week–old takeout carton. The lightbulb in the kitchen flickering every time they switched it on. He forced himself to picture all of that, clinging to it like rope, because the alternative was focusing on the present moment and the present moment was unbearable.

 

He pressed his hand against the guy’s hip because it seemed expected. His other hand hovered stupidly in the air before finding a place to hold onto, though he wasn’t sure he even wanted to touch at all. It was mechanical, awkward, the way you did chores - not because you wanted to but because you had to, because there was no other option.

 

He tried not to think about the sound of it, the way his knees ached on the tile, the sour taste gathering in his throat.

 

When it was over - quicker than Peter thought it would be, thank god, though that didn’t make it any less awful - the guy’s grip loosened from the back of his head. He shoved Peter’s head back and zipped up. His palm lingered for a second, like a pat you’d give to a stray cat, almost mocking in its casualness. Peter crumpled. His knees wobbled, and he slid sideways against the stall wall, legs folding, forehead pressed against the cold metal divider.

 

His breath came in harsh gasps. He couldn’t pull enough air in, chest hitching, throat raw. He didn’t want to look at the guy. Didn’t want to look at anything.

 

The senior chuckled - low, satisfied, the sound wet with self–congratulation. 

 

“Not bad, Parker,” he murmured, like it was a joke, tone dripping with smug amusement. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it. Guess the rumors are true.” He said something else after that - something crude, about the price being worth it - but Peter’s brain cut it out like static once the cash was being pressed into his hands. He couldn’t hold onto the words without wanting to crawl out of his skin.

 

The stall door creaked open and shut. Footsteps echoed out, the bathroom empty again, and Peter was alone. Alone with the silence and the fluorescent buzz and the disgusting taste of bile in the back of his throat.

 

He didn’t move for a long moment. He just sat there, knees bent awkwardly, shoulder pressed into the cold wall. His stomach turned over and over, warning, threatening. His eyes stung, though nothing came out.

 

Finally, he staggered upright, hands shaking so badly he could barely get the stall lock to click back into place. He turned and leaned over the toilet, gagging hard, his stomach seizing. The first heave came up dry, just air tearing out of him, but the second pulled up bitter acid. His throat burned, tears springing hot and fast from the effort.

 

He pressed his hand against the stall wall as he retched again, body shuddering like it was trying to expel not just the bile but everything else too - the shame, the sound of the his laugh, the feel of his hand. But it didn’t work. None of it left. He could throw up until he was empty - or more empty than he already was - but his chest would still feel tight and his skin would still feel wrong and the money would still be sitting heavy in his crumpled grip.

 

When the heaving slowed, he slumped against the stall wall, sliding down until he sat on the floor again. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, grimacing at the taste left behind. His whole body was trembling, shaky with adrenaline, the aftermath of something that wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

The bills in his pocket crinkled when he shifted. For a second, he almost pulled them out, almost wanted to tear them into shreds just to not feel them pressing against his thigh. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t, because two hundred dollars was too much to burn, and too little to erase what just happened.

 

His eyes squeezed shut. He tried to breathe. He told himself it was over. That he just had to get up, wash his face, go home sick. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend harder than he had in the stall.

 

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 

The money was still in his pocket, wadded up tight like it might burn through the fabric. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Enough to cover the gap May had been panicking over. Enough to keep the lights on.

 

And yet every time he thought about it, he felt like he was choking. Like his lungs didn’t work anymore.

 

He hadn’t even looked at the guy’s face. He’d kept his eyes shut the whole time, like maybe if he didn’t see it, it didn’t count. His body had gone stiff and mechanical, one hand gripping too tight on denim, the other shoved forward because that was what was wanted from him. He didn’t breathe until it was over.   He had folded in on himself, shaking and heaving over the toilet like his body was trying to get rid of the whole thing. His knees had been weak. His chest hurt. But then he’d stood up, splashed water on his face, shoved the money deep into his jeans pocket, and walked out like he was fine.

 

Like it was fine.

 

When it was over, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, sat back against the stall, and tried to breathe. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 

He couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t face the halls again. Couldn’t face anyone.

 

—

 

He went home sick that day.

 

He’d told the office he was sick. He wasn’t lying. He couldn’t stop shivering, no matter how many layers he pulled on. His skin crawled all over. The shower he'd taken when he got home had been worse. He’d locked the bathroom door, peeled off his clothes like they were contaminated, and scrubbed until his skin stung. Hot water poured down, steam fogging up the mirror until his reflection disappeared. He kept scrubbing anyway. Soap, fingernails, scalding heat - none of it cut deep enough to erase the memory of a stranger’s hands on him. None of it made his stomach unknot.

 

He stood under the spray long after it turned cold, until his lips turned blue and his body started shaking with that ugly bone-deep shudder that felt like it would never end. Only then did it hit him - May was going to have to take a cold shower after her night shift. May, who already worked herself to the bone to keep the two of them afloat. May, who deserved hot water and rest and peace, and he’d stolen it from her because he couldn’t stop scrubbing. Because he couldn’t stop feeling dirty.

 

The guilt doubled, tripled, swallowed him whole. He curled in on himself under the freezing spray, knees pulled up to his chest, shivering and small, waiting for the cold to burn it all away. But the water didn’t wash anything out of him - it just left him hollow.

 

Because May would have to take a cold shower after her night shift. Because the water bill would be higher. Because he was selfish, because he was disgusting, because he couldn’t get clean no matter how much he scrubbed.

 

Now he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling like maybe it would give him answers. He felt hollow. Numb. The sheets clung damp to his skin.

 

She deserved better than this. Better than a kid she didn’t ask for who ate all their food and couldn’t even keep their heads above water. Better than someone who had to take crumpled bills from strangers in bathrooms. Better than someone who came home smelling like guilt and cold water and couldn’t look her in the eye.

 

—

 

Peter woke up the next morning completely numb.

 

He wasn’t sure, at first, if he’d even slept at all. His body must have shut down at some point, but it didn’t feel like rest - just a blank stretch of time, a void between the bathroom floor and now. His chest rose and fell, lungs filling on autopilot, but everything else in him felt like dead weight. He lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, trying to feel something, anything, and came up empty.

 

He could hear May moving around the kitchen, humming faintly as she poured coffee, maybe already thinking about bills and groceries and the shifts she’d picked up. He wondered if she’d notice he hadn’t come out yet. He wondered if she’d notice that he hadn’t eaten yesterday, or the day before, or maybe all week.

 

He turned his face into the pillow to hide the sting in his eyes. He couldn’t let her see.

 

She had enough to worry about without him adding more. If she knew - if she even suspected - she’d blame herself. She’d blame herself for not protecting him, for working too much, for not being there. And Peter couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t pile his mistakes, his shame, on top of everything else.

 

So he forced himself to breathe evenly. He rehearsed excuses in his head. He’d tell her he wasn’t feeling great, maybe a stomach bug. That would explain skipping breakfast, explain why he stayed in bed. He’d murmur something about school, about being tired, and she’d fuss over him for a little while before heading off to work. He could manage that.  

 

His hands twisted in the sheets. He thought about the money, the folded bills in his backpack, and bile surged in his throat. He’d done it for that - for May, for rent, for electricity - and yet the only thing he felt was worse. Like it hadn’t been worth anything at all. Like he’d traded something he couldn’t get back for scraps.

 

His stomach turned. He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, muffling the ragged breath that shook out of him. He was Spider-Man. He’d fought criminals and rogue Avengers and alien tech. But this - this made him feel like nothing.

 

He wanted to disappear.

 

So he stayed still, body sinking further into the mattress, waiting for May to leave for work, waiting for the world to quiet down again so he could keep pretending it hadn’t happened.

 

—

 

Peter felt nothing.

 

Or at least that was what he told himself as he moved through the crowded halls the next morning, backpack digging into his shoulder, the strap cutting across the sore patch of skin where it always rubbed raw. It was easier to tell himself that than admit the truth - that he felt everything, all at once, jagged and raw, until his chest ached with it. But if he could keep his face slack, keep his eyes dull, then maybe no one would know. Maybe it wouldn’t matter.

 

The numbness had settled in last night, sometime between the hot water running out in the shower and the moment he’d realized May would notice when she stepped in after her shift and found nothing left but cold. He’d crouched under the spray until his teeth chattered, water pooling at his feet, until his fingers ached from clenching too hard. 

 

He carried the shitty, miserable mood across the cracked linoleum of Midtown’s hallways, past the trophy cases and scuffed lockers. People stared. He felt their eyes catch on him and slide away, like grease on glass. He didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. He kept his head down, hands jammed into his hoodie pocket, focusing on the rhythm of his sneakers against the floor. One, two. One, two. Just get to class. Just breathe. Just survive this day, and apologise to Mrs. Delgado for skipping yesterday’s shift. Maybe he could ask if he could make it up today.

 

Ned didn’t ask. That was the only reason Peter didn’t completely fall apart before second period. His best friend fell into step beside him without comment, not filling the silence, not poking at the tight coil wound up in Peter’s chest. Just… walking.  

 

It should have made him grateful. Instead it made the guilt gnaw harder. Because if Ned knew something was wrong - and he clearly did - then how long before he figured it out? Before everyone did?

 

Peter’s ears burned. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to scrape the memory out of his brain, erase the heat of that bathroom stall, the sound of the lock sliding shut behind him, the way he’d had to steady himself afterward with one shaking hand on the cold metal partition. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

 

Two hundred and fifty dollars. That’s all it had been worth. That’s what he kept telling himself, over and over. Two hundred and fifty dollars he could hide away for May without her questioning where it came from. Two hundred and fifty dollars, he repeated to himself in his head. You did that for two hundred and fifty dollars. You gave May two hundred and fifty dollars. Two hundred and fifty dollars meant the lights stayed on. It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t- 

 

“Parker.”

 

Flash’s voice cut through the din of the hallway like a knife. Peter stiffened automatically. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to. He muttered, “Not now,” under his breath and tried to keep moving.

 

But Flash didn’t take the hint. He shouldered into Peter’s path, blocking him just before the turn to his next class. “Hey. Wait. Just - just listen, alright?”

 

Peter’s stomach turned. He stopped, jaw tightening. His whole body felt heavy, like he was wading through wet cement, too exhausted to fight. He glanced up, met Flash’s face for half a second. The usual smugness wasn’t there. Instead, Flash’s mouth twisted, awkward and too tight, like he was forcing himself to be serious.

 

“I’m not in the mood,” Peter said flatly. His voice came out dead, stripped of inflection. He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder, tried to sidestep.

 

Flash’s hand shot out, catching his shoulder. The touch was too much - Peter’s skin crawled, his chest seized, but he froze anyway. He couldn’t afford to make a scene. Not with people already staring. “Look,” Flash said, dropping his voice low, urgent. “I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean for it to - like, I didn’t think I - I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t have said half the shit I did.”

 

Peter stared at him, numb and hollow. Apologies didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, not when people had been looking at him all morning with that sharp, knowing edge in their eyes. “Doesn’t change anything,” Peter muttered.

 

Flash exhaled hard through his nose, glanced over his shoulder at a pair of freshmen walking past, then leaned closer. “Yeah, well - just - just tell me. Is it true?”

 

Peter blinked. His throat tightened. “Is what true?” he asked, voice flat, tired.

 

“That you blew Jake Reynolds.” Peter’s chest seized, his breath catching. He stared at Flash, unblinking, mind white-hot and blank at once. His mouth went dry. Flash went on, like he hadn’t noticed the way Peter had flinched. “Because - he’s telling everyone, dude. And like - I get it, I guess. You need the money, fine. Whatever. But I offered to help you, and I get you don’t want to admit it or anything, but doing that at school is-”

 

“He told people?” Peter asked, voice cracking with humiliation.

 

Of course he'd told people. Of course. Peter should have known. Should have realized from the start, because of course he’d tell people, but Peter had only thought about electricity bills and how May’s hands shook when she opened envelopes from the landlord and not with his stupid fucking head, and-

 

Heat burned in his face, spreading down his neck, through his chest.

 

“It’s true?” Flash demanded, pulling back a little. His eyes went wide, incredulous. “Dude, what the fuck?”

 

The floor tilted beneath Peter’s feet. He wanted to disappear. To peel his skin off and crawl out of it, or sink through the linoleum until the whole school forgot he’d ever existed. Instead he just stood there, caught in Flash’s grip, humiliation eating him alive. Peter blinked at him, hollow and stunned, the words cutting sharper than the words themselves.

What the fuck.

Of course. That was what this was now.

 

He could feel the air shift around them, other kids slowing, pausing on their way to class. A cluster forming at the edge of his vision. He knew that feeling, the heat of a crowd sensing blood in the water, the cruel anticipation of entertainment. His stomach turned.

 

“I-” he started, then stopped, jaw tightening. What was he supposed to say? What lie was going to make this disappear? Flash’s eyes were still wide.

 

“I can’t believe you,” Flash breathed. “You actually did it? Like - at school?”

 

Peter’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His throat was tight, dry, and no words wanted to come. He was aware of the buzzing lights above them, of his heartbeat shoving against his ribs, of the stupid, stupid number in his head like it was tattooed there.

 

Two hundred and fifty dollars.

 

For this. For Flash staring at him like he was filth. For people whispering behind their hands in the hallway.

 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter forced out. His voice was quieter than he meant, shaky, but it was the only defense he could manage.

 

“Sure,” Flash muttered. “I tried to help you, Parker. I just - what the fuck is your deal? I don’t get you!”

 

A ripple of snickering spread around them. Someone muttered “Jesus,” and another kid laughed into their sleeve. Peter felt something inside him snap - not anger, not really, but some taut thread that had been holding his shame in check.

 

“Shut up,” he said, sharper this time. It came out more like a warning than a plea.

 

“Oh, what, you gonna blow me next?” Flash shot back without thinking. Peter’s face burned so hot he thought he might choke on it. He could barely breathe, his chest rising and falling too fast, and his hands shook at his sides. All he could hear was his own pulse, his own ragged breath.

 

And then - he moved.

 

Before he’d even decided to, his fist connected with Flash’s chest, shoving him backward into the lockers with a loud metallic slam. Flash’s eyes went wide, more surprised than hurt, and for a second neither of them moved.

 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Peter hissed. His voice shook, every word bitten out like it was costing him. “You don’t - don’t get to say that. Don’t get to make this into-” He cut himself off, breathing hard. Peter’s fist twitched at his side, and for a terrifying second he wanted to hit him again, to break the stupid faux concerned look off his face, to drown out the humiliation with something physical, something simple. His strength sang under his skin.

 

The hallway had gone silent, everyone staring, waiting for him to explode or collapse. The pressure of it pressed down on his chest until he could barely stand upright. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to melt into the floor.

 

Two hundred and fifty dollars.

 

That was the number echoing in his head, pounding louder than his pulse. He had traded his dignity, his privacy, his body - for that. And it hadn’t even been enough. Not really. The power bill would come again. Rent would still be due. May would still be tired and stressed and looking at him with that worried little crease between her eyebrows.

 

And now everyone knew.

 

Everyone was watching - Peter could feel the stares pressing down on him from all sides, like the hallway had narrowed into a choke point where there was no space to breathe. His throat was closing. His heart was hammering in his chest but the rest of him still felt… wrong, off, like the beat wasn’t quite syncing up with the rest of his body. Too fast, too heavy. He hated this feeling. Flash’s hand caught his wrist.

 

“Let go of me,” he said. His voice cracked, and it was pathetic, and that just made everything worse.

 

Flash tightened his grip. “Dude, just let me help-”

 

“Let go of me.”

 

“Peter,” Flash tried.

 

“Fuck you,” Peter hissed instead.  

 

The words sank like a blade, but before Peter could twist away, Flash let out a frustrated noise, dropping Peter’s hand and snapped, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

Something inside Peter cracked. His breath hitched, the heat rising up his throat like fire, all his fury and exhaustion and shame converging into one single violent need: to punch Flash Thompson in the face. To wipe that smug, cutting look off him and make him stop talking. But Peter didn’t punch him. 

 

Instead, he burst into tears.

 

Flash froze, his anger draining out in an instant. His hand dropped away like he’d been burned. “Wait-” he stammered, startled, guilt already rushing into his face. “Peter - shit, I didn’t-”

 

But Peter was already moving. He ducked his head, shoved through the crowd with his shoulder, ignoring the way people parted for him, whispers trailing behind him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop the tears blurring his vision, couldn’t even think about what face he was making, what they all were seeing.

 

He didn’t stop walking until the school was behind him.

 

He didn’t go home. The thought of May’s face - kind, worried, and so, so tired - was unbearable. If she asked him what was wrong he’d have to lie, and he couldn’t. Not today. Instead, he slipped into an alleyway a couple blocks out, scaling the brick with muscle memory, hands and feet moving until he pulled himself over the ledge of a roof.

 

Up here, it was quiet.

 

He sat down against the rough concrete, knees pulled to his chest, and stared out at the city. Birds wheeled high above, darting and diving in loose, careless formations, like they had all the space in the world. Peter sat and watched for hours. Below, people went about their lives - cars honked, someone walked a dog, a couple of kids screamed as they ran down the street. He just watched. Detached. Floating above it all, not a part of any of it.

 

He didn’t think about jumping; he knew he’d probably survive a fall from this height unless he angled it just right. His body was too stubborn to break that easily, anyway.

 

So he didn’t think about actually jumping. But he thought about how easy it would be if he could.

 

He was supposed to be a good person. That was the bargain. That was what Uncle Ben had meant. That was what Spider-Man was - someone who used what he had for good, no matter what. He was supposed to be content with that. With saving people. With knowing he was doing the right thing.

 

So why wasn’t it enough?

 

This shouldn’t matter. The humiliation, the whispers, the urge to wipe his face every few seconds and that fucking upperclassmen bragging to his friends - it shouldn’t matter. Spider-Man was bigger than that, more important than anything Peter Parker had going on.

 

But it did matter.

 

Because Spider-Man was eating their rent money. Spider-Man was the reason Peter was exhausted, half-starved, barely passing his classes, missing shifts at the cafe. Spider-Man was the reason the lights might go out in their apartment.

 

Spider-Man was why Peter had been standing in that hallway today with his chest cracking open, trying not to cry in front of everyone. Spider-Man was why Jake Reynolds had ever had the chance to put his hands on him in the first place. And Spider-Man- 

 

Spider-Man was still out there saving people. What had Peter Parker ever done for anybody?

 

Nothing. Nothing but make everything worse.

 

Peter closed his eyes. The sun was dropping behind the buildings, shadows stretching long, the warmth bleeding out of the air. He stayed there anyway, arms wrapped tight around himself, trying to will his heartbeat back into something steady.

 

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be Peter Parker anymore.

 

—

 

Peter was tired.

 

Not in the normal, I-did-homework-until-midnight tired, not even in the stayed-up-swinging-until-sunrise kind of tired. This was the kind of tired that felt like it was sitting in the marrow of his bones, chewing through him piece by piece. His body ached, his brain ached, his everything ached. Today had sucked. That was the most efficient way to put it, and he didn’t feel like wasting energy on dressing it up with detail. Some days were just a mess from start to finish, and this had been one of them.

 

He was peeling himself up from the roofline of a warehouse, legs dangling over the edge, mask half-rolled up like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to bother putting it back on. The air smelled like rain and oil and the faint, sharp tang of garbage cooking in dumpsters. Brooklyn on a weeknight night. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, his ribs ached from bruises that hadn’t had time to fade. He told himself he should go home. He told himself Aunt May probably thought he was asleep already.

 

And then he tugged the mask back on anyway.

 

“Karen,” he muttered, the fabric muffling his voice, “you got anything else for me?”

 

The soft hum in his ear was almost comforting now. “I’ve been tracking eighteen possible sites associated with the trafficking network. The nearest lead from the last suspect is a mile east. A warehouse with inconsistent utilities usage and suspicious delivery patterns.” A pause. “Are you sure this is a good idea? You’ve already had a very long day.”

 

Peter pushed himself to his feet, joints creaking louder than they should. He tried for a joke, anyway. “When have I ever not had a good idea?”

 

There was a tiny pause - Karen’s version of a deadpan. “Would you like me to provide a list?”

 

Peter snorted, shaking his head as he leapt off the edge and swung into the dark stretch of sky. “You’re funny.”

 

“I learned from the best.”

 

The city moved under him. Normally, swinging loosened him up. Tonight, it just felt like muscle memory dragging him forward. His stomach twisted with hunger, but he ignored it, focusing on the rhythmic pull-and-release of his webbing.

 

The warehouse came into view after a few minutes. Not flashy, not obvious - just another squat building with trucks lined up on one side, nothing to distinguish it from the dozen others in the block. But Peter’s senses prickled before he even got close enough to see. Something sharp and rotten sat at the edge of his awareness. Wrong.

 

He crouched on the roof of a neighboring building, eyes narrowing.

 

“Thermal?” he asked quietly.

 

A flicker across his lenses. “Fourteen heat signatures inside the trucks. Two outside, armed.”

 

Peter’s chest went tight. Fourteen. That wasn’t cargo.

 

The jokes died in his throat.

 

He moved without thinking, without pausing to let the tiredness catch up to him. Webbing shot out, catching on a lamppost, and he swung down hard into the side of the truck. The guards had time to shout, rifles jerking up, before Peter was already moving - already landing in the dirt with a thud that cracked through his knuckles when he slammed the first man down.

 

The second shouted something - an order, a curse, Peter didn’t know - and raised his gun. Peter webbed the muzzle before the shot could go off and yanked him forward into a solid right hook. The man went down, wheezing.

 

The driver’s door creaked open, but Peter was there in two strides, ripping it off the hinges before the guy inside could even swing his pistol up. A punch, a web, and he was unconscious, slumped over the seat.

 

Peter’s chest heaved. He didn’t feel tired anymore. 

 

He yanked at the truck’s back door until it groaned and split, metal whining as it gave way. Fourteen pairs of eyes blinked back at him from the dark. Wide, frightened, hollow. “Hey,” Peter said quickly, voice softening at once. He raised his hands, palms open. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

 

They didn’t move, not at first. He couldn’t blame them. If he looked at himself right now - masked, breathing hard, body language wound tight - he wouldn’t trust him either. But then one of them, a woman maybe mid-twenties with blood dried along her temple, shifted forward. “Spider-Man?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter said, forcing a small nod. “That’s me. And I promise you’re getting out of here.”

 

Karen was already calling emergency services in his ear. He focused on breaking restraints, helping people down from the truck’s back step. His hands shook with adrenaline, but he kept them gentle, steady.

 

By the time the sirens echoed faint in the distance, most of the captives had scattered a little, giving each other space. Some clung together. Peter stayed close, crouched low so he didn’t tower over anyone. One of them - a woman in her forties, arm curled protectively around a teenager who might’ve been her daughter - looked at him. “I know where they were going to take us.” 

 

Peter’s head snapped up. “What?”

 

“They said we were going to a house as entertainment.”

 

Peter’s pulse thrummed hard in his ears. He leaned in, trying to keep his voice calm, careful. “Do you remember the location?”

 

The woman nodded, swallowing, and Peter's stomach sank.

 

—

 

The house sat back from the road, hidden by big hedges, a sweeping drive, blacked-out windows that swallowed the streetlights whole. From the street it could have been a spa, a gated community house with an aggressive landscaping budget. From the roof, up in the trees, it looked like a fortress. Cameras blinked like eyes, motion sensors dotted the roofline and there were heat signatures in the yard moved with the careful, ritualized patrol of people who had money to spend on being paranoid.

 

Peter’s ribs still throbbed, a dull thud under his shirt, but the ache braided itself with a sharper, cleaner thing: focus.  

 

“Perimeter cameras: twenty-three fixed, four PTZ. Approximate guard rotation: nine to ten minutes. Ground sensors on the drive will register a human crossing at two meters per second,” she reported.

 

He didn’t need the numbers to know it was bad. He needed the numbers to know how bad. He needed the numbers so he could decide whether to walk away or to make a terrible choice.

 

“You sure this is the right place?” he asked out loud, though he already knew. The woman in the truck had named this property. The boy with the dried blood at his temple had described the second-in-command’s home.

 

Karen’s tone went robotic-soft. “Confirmed. Surveillance grid matches delivery pattern flagged last month. Multiple privileged visitors logged. This is a high-value location for trafficking logistics.”

 

“Great.” He hugged his knees tighter. “And the alarms?”

 

“What would you like me to do about them?” Karen asked.

 

Peter let out a short, humorless breath. “Scan for IP ranges. Loop feeds. Anything we can do remotely to blind them for a short window.”

 

“That is a terrible idea,” Karen said. “But they also have terrible security. Cameras have been temporarily disabled.”

 

“Thank you.” He swung down the side of the house, landing in a slick ribbon of shadow between hedges. The blacked windows watched him, and for a second, blind panic tried to climb his spine - if the feeds went full dark and the backup systems kicked in, if the alarm tower had a direct phone line to a security company that employed people who liked to shoot first.

 

Karen’s voice cut in again, clipped and a fraction more distant. “External feeds disrupted. Internal feeds degraded. Local network noise elevated. This is highly illegal and extremely risky.”

 

He swung in, landing on the side of the building before tugging open a window and climbing inside. Empty. A bedroom, a bathroom. Locked doors. An idea had been cooking in his stomach since the woman in the truck had spoken about “what they expect.” The thought shoveled ash over every other instinct.

 

He tore the mask off.

 

Karen went silent in the ear, cut through mid-protest. The little informational hum dropped into static.

 

The first breath of illegal human air - rich, perfumed, expensive - hit him and he almost gagged. He hadn’t planned for how naked the world would feel without the filter, without the little HUD and the distance a mask gave him. Without the safety of being Spider-Man. Without the camera buffer that let him be brave from a distance.

 

He double checked that the door was locked, before he turned and rifled through the closets. He found clothes that would fit him, if a little big. He could look like a civilian who could be stolen, a boy whose fabric could be pulled away and whose face could be photographed for no good reason. Being seen on purpose felt stupid and terrible, but it would probably give him a better cover than an outright intruder.

 

And since these men expected kidnapped people to be their commodity and they expected submissive, compliant faces, he could play that role.

 

There was a robe folded on a chair in a bedroom, exactly the kind of thing you’d find in a tucked-away guest room meant for “clients.” Silk, cheap and heavy from years of laundering. Dirty gold. He tugged it on, too, the robe sliding over bruised shoulders. The smell - cologne and sweat and something sweeter - stuck to him as he tied it around his waist, like a cowardly single layer of real identity under a costume.

 

He glanced once at his phone, tucked away in a pocket. He should have had it out. Shedding the mask had felt like stripping off armor and he had not wanted electronics or cameras or data clouding the moment. He was reckless and stupid and aware of both, which made him feel like a kid again.

 

He turned, webbing the folded-up suit to the roof inside of the closet, and hoped to god no one would touch it. It was out of sight, though, and he should only be an hour. He'd be back for it.

 

The hallway was quiet as he stepped out of the bedroom, soft light pooling in amber circles from wall sconces. Everything smelled faintly of incense, cloying, sweet, heavy. Expensive, but like they’d layered it on to cover something rotten underneath.

 

And of course, that was when a guard rounded the corner. Peter froze, half-turning like he’d been caught sneaking. The man gave him a long, lazy once-over, eyes traveling from the robe down Peter’s bare legs to his feet. His mouth curled. “New?”

 

Peter ducked his head. “Yeah.”

 

The guard made a noise in his throat - approval, maybe - and jerked his chin. “This way.”

 

And that was it. No suspicion, no second look, just assumption. Just one more body in the parade of them. Peter followed, each step deliberate, his shoulders set in a slump that wasn’t quite submissive but close enough. His brain screamed at him the whole way: this was stupid, this was reckless, he was walking into a nest without webs or weapons or even the mask. But the robe was good camouflage, and right now camouflage mattered more than firepower if he wanted real information.

 

The guard muttered something into his radio and then turned, leading him through a hallway lit with low lamps. Soft carpets swallowed their footsteps. Paintings of expensive dogs hung like accusations. When they entered a main room, somewhere to the left was a bar, and soft music leaked through doors like an undercurrent.

 

Peter’s whole body was painfully aware of what he represented in the eyes that watched him: something purchasable, something disposable, something supposed to be small and quiet. It made his skin crawl. The robe clung to him in a way that made him feel naked under the heavy expectation.

 

The guard stopped at a door, opened it without knocking, and waved Peter in.

 

The room was warm, thick with smoke from low dishes burning incense and something stronger. The lighting was dim, colored bulbs tucked in corners, bathing the place in reds and golds. Plush couches sprawled in a semi-circle, and on them lounged three men. Heavy jewelry. Expensive shoes.  On a low table sat a bowl of nuts and a sleek glass ashtray; two men laughed.

 

And scattered between them were women. Not many, maybe four, all in various states of undress. Robes like his, but pulled down off shoulders, straps hanging loose, skin shown off like trophies.

 

Peter’s mouth went dry. He should have been ready for this. He wasn’t. Every muscle in Peter’s body wanted to coil up and strike.

 

Instead, he lowered his eyes and stepped in.

 

The guard spoke in a voice meant to reassure the men. “Some of the girls are off tonight. This one’s - new.”

 

They turned. Their eyes were not kind. Some of them were curious with the flat interest of consumers. One man nudged another; one didn’t bother to hide the appraisal. The words were not spoken - they didn’t need to be. Their faces spelled out the small translation: they thought he was the commodity they’d bought.

 

Panic tried to lurch forward, an animal reflex, and Peter swallowed it down with a slow, shallow breath. He absorbed their looks and converted them into a shallow, practiced softness. The men in the lounge were blinking at him, picking him apart with the bored, civilized hunger of predators used to getting what they wanted.

 

One of them - the second-in-command Peter had been after by reputation and the truck woman’s words - sat near the back. He had a round face and too-small eyes that glinted when he smiled. The smug tilt of his chin told Peter everything he needed to know. The guard - kind, efficient, disappointed that his detainee might not perform to his script - nudged Peter toward the man. “Fresh,” he said. “He’s a bit quiet.”

 

Peter’s throat burned. It was one thing to play a role. It was another to let them touch the seams and imagine the price someone would pay for the name stitched into that fabric. He let the guard’s hand rest, and when it slid away the man in the robe closed the space between them with casual confidence.

 

“You sure you’re new?” the man asked. His voice was gravelly, smooth, like he’d said the same lines too many times. Peter ducked his head, because what else could he do? The man’s eyes lingered on the skin of Peter’s throat. He didn’t ask anything else; but then he laughed, a sound with no mirth. “Come here. I’ll make you feel at home.”

 

Heat prickled the back of Peter’s neck. He sat. The robe slid, exposing a pale throat, the bruised outline of a collarbone. The men leaned in like vultures sniffing for blood and, in a way, they were all predators - the kind that wound around small things until they broke.

 

The fabric was thin, silk that wasn’t really silk, dyed a dark glossy red with black embroidery curling up the edges like spider legs. It itched against his shoulders. He tugged the sash tighter, tried not to think about the fact that someone else was supposed to wear this, someone who had been dragged into this house and shoved into a costume because these guys wanted their cruelty dressed up like pageantry.

 

“Move closer,” the man said, and Peter obeyed. Because that was what he had to do.

 

The cushions sank as he perched on the edge, hands folded neatly in his lap like he’d been trained to sit still and pretty. A moment later, a heavy arm hooked around his waist and yanked him closer until he was practically in the man’s lap. 

 

“Don’t be shy,” the man crooned, his fingers already tracing the sash, tugging the knot. “You’re here to keep us company, aren’t you?”

 

Peter wanted to break his wrist. Instead, he tilted his head, let the man touch, let himself be steered. Someone else poured drinks. Someone else laughed too loudly. Peter sat in the lap, felt the hand settle at his waist, felt fingers trail lower than they should. He held himself very still, let it happen.

 

And then, blessedly, the conversation rolled on, as if he wasn’t even there except for decoration.

 

The men talked in lazy, circling loops, their voices rising and falling with the ebb of alcohol. One man with a chin like a rooster’s comb muttered about a shipment arriving early, about crates being unloaded at night. 

 

“That was… the Queens shipment, right?” One man asked mildly, as he dragged a woman into his lap and ran a hand up her thigh like she was furniture. She smiled, brittle and empty, and leaned into him because the alternative wasn’t allowed.

 

“Brooklyn,” Another one corrected with a frown. “We were supposed to see a few tonight for pricing, actually. I’ll have Jack follow that up,” he said, before snapping his fingers at a guard who wandered over.

 

They kept talking. It was hard to focus, but Peter cataloged everything. Every name, every time, every address. He didn’t have time for fury. Fury was expensive and distracting. Information was cheap and effective. 

 

The man beneath him kept talking, his voice rumbling through Peter’s spine, chest pressed into his back. He let the man’s hand slide up to hold his chin, turning his face side to side like he was a piece of art to be appraised. He let fingers drag through his hair, scratching the base of his skull in a parody of intimacy. He even let one hand slip beneath the edge of the robe, icy fingers brushing against the top of his hip bone, setting panic jolting sharp through his body. 

 

Because if he flinched, if he pulled away, that would cause problems. And then he’d lose everything. 

 

So he didn’t.

 

The robe itched like a brand. Every inch of it reminded Peter that this was a costume sewn out of other people’s suffering - someone else’s stolen, ruined nights stitched into a pattern he was meant to wear for an hour or two. 

 

The man under him shifted suddenly. Peter nearly toppled off his lap as he stood, brushing ash from his sleeve. 

 

“I’m calling it a night,” he announced, stubbing out his cigarette on the tray with an easy flick. The others waved him off, still laughing, still drinking. Then the man turned, offered Peter a hand with a smile that wasn’t kind at all. “Sorry for ignoring you. Talking business must have been boring, huh?” 

 

His tone was syrupy, the way someone might talk to a particularly stupid dog they wanted to heel, or a child they wanted to hush. Peter ducked his head.

 

The man grinned, satisfied, and tilted his head toward the hallway. “Come on. You’ll keep me company tonight.” 

 

In other circumstances,Peter would never be alone with a man like that. In other circumstances he would have left the robe behind and stormed in as Spider-Man with webs, noise, and violence. But this was not theatrics. This was needlework; soft hands, measured breath, silence until the right moment. He let the man guide him into a new room, let the door close behind them.

 

The air in the room smelled of stale cologne and something slick.

 

The man who’d chosen him was already loose with his attention, pleased at the easy access, a smile in his voice as he closed the door fully.  Peter’s muscles coiled, and when the man came forward, reaching for the robe’s belt, something in the way the man’s hand moved - slow, confident, already imagining the night ahead - triggered a hard, angry clarity in Peter.

 

He moved.

 

His first motion was a smack. It was a clean, surprising strike right across the man’s face, open-handed, aimed to shock. The man hadn’t expected resistance; shock flattened him for a flash. Peter followed up with a knee into the stomach, a punch that landed with his fist sinking to bone, and another, the kind of fast, practiced violence you only get when you know where to put your weight.

 

There was a full-on scramble then. The man cursed, surprise cutting into a rising fury. He shoved at Peter, reaching for collars. But Peter’s hands had already found purchase, a hard grip on the collarbone and shirt, and he drove the man back against the dresser with a shoulder to the sternum. The guy was big and ugly-strong but slow. Slow was a gift. Peter used his knees and elbows, keeping each blow controlled, non-lethal, aimed to disable not to kill.  

 

The man swung wildly, and Peter dodged, ducking under a flailing arm and ramming his shoulder into the man’s ribs. The guy doubled over with a strangled cough, chest heaving, eyes wild. He reached blindly for the nearest thing he could use - a drawer or a belt - and his fingers closed on the cool hard edge of metal.

 

Cold metal. The pistol came free into Peter’s hand with a weight he hadn’t expected, the familiar, terrible heft of a weapon. For an instant they both froze, the room narrowing to the two of them and the click of a plastic safety somewhere in the background of his head.

 

The man’s face was a map of surprise and fear, then anger - the sharp, animal anger of someone who thinks he still has the upper hand. “What the fuck are you-” he choked out, grabbing at Peter’s wrist, trying to pull the gun back where it belonged.

 

Peter jammed his thumb under the man’s jaw, forced his head up so the man couldn’t drool out threats. He kept the pistol pointed low, not at the man’s face, not yet, but aligned enough that the man knew a mistake would cost him everything. “You’re going to tell me everything I need to know,” Peter said, voice low and carrying a dangerous softness. “Names. Addresses. The boss you mentioned earlier, where is he? Say something useful.”

 

The man spat blood into his palm and sneered. “What kind of whore are you supposed to be? You think I’m gonna talk to a-” He broke off, eyes flicking to the gun like it had become a live animal. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

 

Peter’s jaw tightened. He slammed the muzzle against the man’s sternum and leaned in so close the man could smell the copper at the back of his throat.

 

“Fletcher,” Peter said, almost conversational, the name like a key he was trying in a lock. “The man you were talking about before. Tell me Fletcher’s full name and give me his address. Don’t lie.”

 

For a second the man clamped his jaw and sneered, but then, under the pressure and the gun and the way Peter’s eyes had gone utterly cold, the bravado cracked. Sweat streaked pale over the man’s temple. 

 

Even when he spoke, Peter’s fingers closed a fraction around the pistol. Good enough. When Peter had gotten all he needed, the man - exhausted and defeated - hiccupped a laugh that was all cough. “You’re a crazy fuckin’ kid,” he rasped. “You’ll die for this.”

 

Peter felt a twinge of something that was almost pity but wasn’t. He shoved the butt of the pistol against the man’s temple - not to kill but to guarantee the man wouldn’t scramble to his feet and shout. The man crumpled, blood trickling from a split lip, mouth slack. 

 

Peter stood, chest heaving, pulse working through a cadence that felt more like a drum than a life sign. He wiped his knuckles against his robe, and Peter’s hands shook when he tested the pieces - the magazine, the chamber. He tucked the weapon into his robe, exactly where he could feel it through fabric. He wanted to kick the man hard enough to cave in his ribs, disgust curling through him.

 

Instead, he moved to the window.

 

He pushed it up. The glass was old, single-pane, and gave with a squeal. The night air hit him, and he slipped out, wrists and feet finding old, practiced footholds along the drainpipe. On the roof he paused, before crossing the building and ducking back into the room he’d originally entered in. He locked the door again, pulled on his mask and the rest of the suit, and crawled back out. He took the robe. He was going to fucking burn that thing.

 

Adrenaline flared, then drained, leaving only the thin, bright edge of focus and exhaustion. He had a place, and now he had to decide if he was going to take it apart with his bare hands tonight, or wait until he could stand straight without feeling dizzy.

 

—

 

Peter didn’t remember getting home that night. His fists were still bloody when he crawled into bed.

 

Notes:

tws for: prostitution/actual sex work, SA, general ickiness. also flash being allergic to saying the right thing for once in his life

im sorry. theyre all having a rough time fr, but peter is just................ not going well. literally nothing is working out for him but he's also making THE WORST POSSIBLE CHOICES so like. sure. why not at this point

but FLASH CMON MAN WHAT THE HELLLLL

Chapter 10: sick

Summary:

Peter barely made it through first period without throwing up.

Notes:

this one is..... long. a lot happens, and yall should definitely check the tws. i swear to god, things look absolutely terrible but im going to fix it i promise 😭😭

i spent like 6 hrs locking in to get this all done tonight bc i was so excited to gut every last one of you. fuck peter parker fr.

AND!!! THIS ISNT ALL MY FAULT YELL AT @Child_of_GO_and_Lokius_divorce TOO

edit: i mixed up my evil suggestion givers, yell at @Bartib_A instead 😈😈

Peter barely made it through first period without throwing up.

 

He’d catch girls watching him out of the corner of his eye, whispering behind their hands like he couldn’t hear. Except he could. He always could. Is he single? Did you see his arms? He looks-  The words pressed into him like a thousand tiny pins. Then the guys weren’t whispering. They weren’t even subtle. One of the basketball seniors shoulder-checked him on his way past and someone else hissed something about his mouth. And then there were the hands - fingers brushing his arm when he walked by, a palm too low on his back when he bent to grab a book from his locker. A group of juniors laughing when one of them smacked him as he passed.

 

His stomach turned. Every nerve was crawling, like his skin wasn’t his.

 

Peter ducked his head lower and tried to move faster, but the hallway was too crowded. And every time he thought about telling someone to knock it off, his throat closed. Because if he said anything, he’d just make himself more of a target. Don’t make a scene, don’t draw attention, don’t let them know they’re getting to you.

 

Except they were. God, they were. His hands were shaking so badly by third period that his pencil kept slipping. He sat in the back, staring at the corner of the desk, trying to tune everything out, but even then he could feel eyes on him.

 

He felt sick. He wanted out.

 

By the time the bell rang for lunch, Peter felt like his entire body was one big frayed wire. His head ached, his stomach twisted, and every sound grated like it was happening too close to his ears. The cafeteria was worse - too many bodies, too much noise, too many eyes. He shuffled in with Ned and MJ, tray clutched in his hands though he hadn’t bothered to put more than an apple and a carton of milk on it. The smell of greasy pizza and fries turned his stomach; his throat closed just looking at it. His whole chest felt raw.

 

They picked a table near the edge, half-shielded by the wall. It should’ve felt safe, but Peter still couldn’t shake the sense of being watched. Every time someone walked behind him, he stiffened, waiting for a hand, a shove, or something he didn’t want to hear. His appetite was gone anyway. He just set the tray down and didn’t touch it.

 

Ned and MJ fell into a conversation almost immediately - something about a new game Ned had downloaded that Peter was ninety percent sure he was just talking about to fill the silence. Peter couldn’t keep up with what they were actually saying, anyway. He couldn’t even lift his head.

 

He slumped sideways, shoulder pressing against Ned’s arm, and to his relief, Ned didn’t move away. He just adjusted slightly, bracing himself so Peter could lean as much as he needed. Peter let his head tip down until his cheek brushed the sleeve of Ned’s hoodie. His eyelids dragged heavy.

 

He wanted to go home. Crawl into bed, pull the blankets over his head, shut the whole world out until his skin stopped crawling. His bones ached, his head hurt, and he was tired and still angry from the night before, and every muscle screamed for rest. He didn’t want to think about homework, about work, about patrol, about anything. 

 

Just bed. Just silence.

 

MJ’s voice broke through, dry and steady: “You look like you’re about three seconds from face-planting into the table.”

 

Peter gave a low, tired hum that was meant to be a denial but came out more like agreement. His hands stayed folded in his lap, fingers twitching restlessly, and he pressed closer to Ned, trying to take up less space, trying not to exist so loudly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this tired.

 

Ned shifted beside him, shoulder solid against his. He didn’t say anything, didn’t press, just let Peter lean. MJ was picking at her noodles from home with chopsticks, eyes flicking to Peter every other second like she was measuring how close he was to passing out in his food. Peter wanted to distract them with something dumb that would lighten the mood, but it felt like so much effort just to unclench his jaw.

 

He was about to try anyway when a new shadow fell across the table.

 

“Can I talk to you?” The voice cut straight through the noise. Peter’s stomach sank, muscles seizing tight. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

 

Flash.

 

Ned froze under him, posture going taut. MJ’s chopsticks stilled mid-tap. Slowly, deliberately, Peter lifted his head. Flash was standing there, his expression strangely uncertain. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t sneering. He just looked - hesitant. Careful.

 

MJ got there first. “No,” she said flatly. Her eyes narrowed into knives. “Go away.”

 

Ned’s expression flattened into something sharp, hard in a way Peter rarely saw on him. He straightened, shoulders squared, glaring up at Flash like he was ready to throw his whole tray at his face. Peter blinked at both of them, then back at Flash.

 

Flash didn’t look at either of them. He kept his eyes on Peter. “Please.”

 

Simple. Quiet. Nothing like the cocky, careless way Flash usually spoke. Peter’s chest tightened. For a long moment, he just sat there, torn between the comfort of leaning into Ned’s shoulder and the hollow pull of whatever this was going to turn into. He didn’t have the energy for a fight. He didn’t have the energy for anything. But something in Flash’s voice tugged at him anyway.

 

He closed his eyes. Took a breath that didn’t quite reach his lungs. Then, he stood up.

 

Ned shifted like he was about to grab his sleeve. MJ got there faster, catching his wrist in her fingers. Her grip was firm, nails biting just enough into his skin to grab his attention. Her gaze slid to Flash. “If you upset him, I’m going to shove these chopsticks so far up your ass you’ll be speaking Mandarin by the time I’m done with you.”

 

Flash’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but no words came out.

 

Peter swallowed hard, tugged lightly at his wrist. “It's fine,” he said, though his voice sounded thin and worn.

 

MJ held on a beat longer, searching his face. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, she let him go. Peter stepped around the table, each step dragging, and followed Flash out of the cafeteria. The noise dulled behind them as the door swung shut, leaving the muffled quiet of the hall.

 

The difference was jarring. Empty lockers. The hum of fluorescent lights. His own pulse in his ears. Flash shoved his hands into his pockets, exhaled through his nose, and stared at the far wall for a long moment before speaking.

 

“Look,” he muttered. “I just - wanted to say sorry. For… all of it. For snapping at you. For judging. For the jokes.” His voice caught on the last word, bitter. “They were shitty.”

 

Peter blinked at him. His throat ached. He wasn’t sure what to say. So he settled on the easiest option: “It’s okay.”

 

Flash shook his head, sharp and quick. “It’s not.” He finally looked at Peter, eyes tight, jaw working. “It’s not okay. I-” He broke off, ran a hand through his hair. “I care about you, alright? I’m trying to get it, I am, but I don’t know. It’s hard. I would’ve given you that money if you needed it, you know? I just-” His mouth twisted. “You made such a huge thing about me leaving cash before, but then…”

 

Peter’s face burned hot, shame crawling up his neck. He didn’t need Flash to finish the thought. He knew exactly where it was headed.

 

Flash seemed to realize it too. His expression crumpled. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, fuck. I keep - saying the wrong thing. I’m not trying to upset you, I just-” His voice cracked with frustration. “I just don’t understand. But - it’s…” He trailed off helplessly.

 

Peter sniffled, quick and quiet, dragging the back of his hand over his face. His eyes stung. He hated that they stung. For a second, neither of them spoke. The hallway stretched wide and empty around them.

 

Then, almost too soft to catch, Flash asked, “Do you… want a hug?”

 

Peter froze. His heart gave a weak, painful thud. He should’ve said no. Should’ve stepped back, deflected, made some dumb joke. But his chest hurt and his bones ached and every inch of him just wanted warmth.

 

“Yeah,” he whispered. His voice broke on it.

 

Flash didn’t hesitate this time. He stepped forward and pulled him in, arms wrapping around Peter’s shoulders. Peter melted against him instantly, forehead pressed to his collarbone, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him standing. The hug was awkward. Too tight, too long. Flash’s heart was pounding against his chest like it was trying to break free. But Peter didn’t care. He just breathed in the solid warmth of it, clung harder, let himself rest for the first time all day.

 

After a long while, Flash pulled back just enough to look at him. His voice was cautious, careful. “You want to… do another tutoring session? After school?”

 

Peter sniffed again, dragging his sleeve over his face. “Sure. I’ve got work after this, but… I can come by after that. I just gotta get through the day first.”

 

Flash’s hand lingered at his arm, squeezing gently. “You’re halfway there,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat: “You want a ride to work?”

 

Peter’s breath stuttered out of him, almost a laugh, almost a sob. Relief loosened something deep in his chest.

 

“Yes, please,” he breathed.

 

—

 

Flash’s car smelled faintly of leather and cologne, the kind of cologne that was probably expensive and probably sprayed on with the vague hope it might cover up gym sweat. Peter sat with his backpack pulled into his lap, hands twisted into the straps, and kept his eyes on the windshield. The ride was quiet in a way that wasn’t awful, not tense exactly - just… unsure.

 

Flash drove with one hand on the wheel, shoulders back, and Peter leaned his temple against the cool glass of the passenger window and let himself zone out for a few minutes. The hum of the car, the low bass of whatever song Flash had half-turned down - it all blurred together until they pulled up to the familiar corner cafe.

 

The bell above the door jingled when they stepped inside, and Mrs. Delgado popped her head out from behind the counter. She brightened immediately.

 

“Peter! You’re late, mijo, but that’s okay. It’s dead in here today.” Her sharp eyes flicked to Flash, lingering with mild suspicion. “And you brought a friend?”

 

Flash straightened, suddenly very interested in presenting his best self. “Uh - yeah. Hey. I’m Flash. Just - uh - just here to hang out, maybe study a little.”

 

Mrs. Delgado hummed, not fooled in the slightest. “As long as you buy something and don’t distract him too much.”

 

Peter gave a weak smile, already ducking into the back room to throw on his apron. By the time he emerged, Flash had apparently overcompensated by ordering the largest coffee on the menu and dropping a folded bill into the tip jar. Mrs. Delgado’s eyes widened when she fished it out later.

 

“Fifty dollars?” she muttered, shaking her head like the world had gone insane.

 

Peter caught her look, cheeks heating. “He… he’s just like that,” he said quickly, tugging on his apron strings tighter.

 

“Mm-hm,” she said, which was her way of saying she wasn’t convinced.

 

The shift crawled. Peter swept the same corner three times, wiped the counters until they gleamed, and rearranged the stack of napkins just to have something to do. Every so often, Flash would glance up from his books in the corner and give him a look - half like he was checking in, half like he wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

 

When the line was empty and the espresso machine hissed quietly in the background, Peter drifted over to the table where Flash sat. “Your notes are a mess,” he muttered, eyeing the scrawl across the page.

 

Flash looked offended. “It’s a system.”

 

“It’s a disaster,” Peter corrected tiredly, grin pulling at the corner of his mouth as he reached down to flip the notebook toward himself. He grabbed a spare pen from his apron pocket and started drawing arrows between half-sentences, crossing things out. “If you can’t read your own handwriting in a week, then it doesn’t matter how good the system is.”

 

Flash leaned back in his chair, watching him with an unreadable expression. “You sound like a teacher.”

 

Peter made a face. “Don’t insult me.”

 

That got a laugh, the kind that made Peter’s chest ache because it was easy and warm and so unlike the noise of the hallways at school. He focused harder on the page. It kept his hands busy, kept him from thinking too hard about the weight of Flash’s gaze on him and how that made his chest warm with something stupid.

 

—

 

The hours blurred. The cafe stayed mostly empty; a couple of regulars came and went, but by the last hour, the only person left was Flash, stubbornly pretending to study while sneaking glances over the rim of his coffee cup.

 

Finally, Mrs. Delgado poked her head out of the back. “Peter, cariño, close up. No point keeping you here when it’s just him sitting there.”

 

Peter blinked, surprised. “But - my shift-"

 

She waved him off. “I’ll pay you for the full three hours. Take the leftovers, go home. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.”

 

Peter hesitated, then nodded. He didn’t argue when she packed a paper bag with the leftover baked goods and something that smelled like cinnamon. He ducked into the back one more time, peeled off the apron, and changed into his hoodie and jeans.

 

When he emerged, Flash was waiting by the door, empty cup in hand. “Ready?”

 

Peter nodded, clutching the bag of food. The cafe lights flickered off behind them as Mrs. Delgado locked up, giving Flash one last warning look that made him squirm.

 

Outside, the night air was cool, the city buzzing faintly in the distance. Peter climbed into the passenger seat again, letting the food rest on his lap. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion as Flash started the car, the radio filling the space between them. 

 

—

 

Flash kept one hand on the wheel and tried not to keep checking the passenger seat every five seconds.

 

Peter had gone quiet the second they pulled out of the cafe’s lot, slumped against the window with the paper bag of food balanced carefully on his lap like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His hoodie was bunched at the shoulder, his hair curling damp at the edges, and Flash couldn’t stop glancing over - just to make sure he hadn’t passed out or something.

 

He wasn’t sure why it mattered so much. It just… did.

 

The radio was on low, some forgettable Top 40 song filling the silence. Flash didn’t even like it, but he didn’t change the station. He kept his grip steady, eased over every bump in the road like he was chauffeuring fragile glassware instead of a classmate who barely tolerated him.

 

Except - Peter didn’t look like he barely tolerated him anymore. Not tonight. Flash swallowed hard, focusing on the road. Don’t overthink it. Don’t screw it up.

 

By the time they pulled into his driveway, Peter hadn’t moved much, just blinked slowly when Flash killed the engine. For a second, Flash thought maybe he’d fallen asleep after all.

 

“You, uh-" Flash cleared his throat, nerves catching. “You sure you still wanna… come in? If you’re tired, I can always just take you home. We could always… reschedule, or whatever.”

 

Peter’s head tipped against the window, eyes half-lidded. “Nah. I’m good.”

 

Flash tried not to let the tiny rush of relief show on his face as he scrambled out of the car and circled around. Peter followed at his own pace.

 

Inside, the house was still too big, too polished, too empty. Flash hated it most nights. But when Peter stepped in, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, backpack strap slipping down one shoulder, it didn’t look so empty.

 

They settled in his room, books and papers spread across the floor. Flash tried - really tried - to pay attention while Peter explained something about quadratic functions. But every time he nodded along, his eyes slipped sideways. Peter’s voice was thin, quiet, and his hands trembled when he pushed his hair back. He looked exhausted. Miserable.

 

Flash had thought a lot about how tutoring with Peter was supposed to go. Not that he’d ever admit it, not even to himself. It was just supposed to be math and English, maybe a little science if he was desperate enough. Peter was the smart one, Peter explained things in a way that made sense, and then Flash wouldn’t feel like a total idiot when grades came back. That was the plan. Clean, simple, efficient.

 

Except it never actually worked out that way.

 

Peter always looked tired, but this was different. His shoulders hunched, his eyes ringed red, his hair sticking up in a way that wasn’t cute so much as worrying. And it wasn’t like Flash could say anything, because what was he supposed to say? Hey Parker, you look like you got run over. You good?

 

So he just stayed next to him, their books fanned out like they always did. Peter dug into his bag, pulled out the textbooks, laid things out like he was determined to go through the motions. Like his life wasn’t visibly crumbling right in front of him.

 

Flash hated that. Not that Peter looked wrecked - he hated that he kept pretending he wasn’t.

 

“Uh… so,” Peter started, flipping to the algebra chapter. His voice was thin, hoarse. “Factoring. You, um… did you do the homework?”

 

Flash blinked. “Kinda.”

 

That was generous. He hadn’t touched it. But he wasn’t going to admit that. Peter made a little noise in his throat, something like agreement but more like he didn’t have the energy to argue. He just started explaining, tracing numbers with his pencil, talking through steps in that way he did. And Flash tried to pay attention. He really did. But every time he glanced sideways, Peter’s face distracted him.

 

He looked… bad. Worse than bad. The kind of bad that made Flash’s stomach twist with something he didn’t want to name. Not pity, because Peter didn’t need pity. Not guilt, even though he kind of deserved that after all the years of being a jerk. It was something else, heavier. Something that made his chest ache.

 

“You okay?” Flash asked finally, blurting it out before he could stop himself.

 

Peter blinked at him like he hadn’t even heard the question the first time. Then he shrugged. That was it. No words, just that half-hearted shrug. “Yeah. We’re almost done.”

 

They weren’t. Not by a long shot. Flash hesitated, then shifted closer. His arm moved almost on instinct, curling awkwardly around Peter’s shoulders. Before he could overthink it, he pulled Peter against him. It wasn’t much of a hug. Not at first. Just an arm sliding around his shoulders, a tentative squeeze, waiting for Peter to stiffen and pull away. Waiting for him to say what the hell are you doing? But he didn’t.

 

He sniffled, once. Then let out a shaky breath, sagged into him, and rested his head against Flash’s shoulder like he’d been waiting for someone to let him collapse. A small, wet sound caught in his throat, and Flash realized with a jolt that Peter was sniffling.

 

Flash froze. He didn’t - he wasn’t a hugger. He didn’t do this. Not with guys, not with anyone. But Peter was small and warm and trembling against him, and for some reason Flash couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring himself to push him away. Instead, he tightened his grip, just a little. Careful.

 

Flash’s grip tightened without thinking. “How about we just… not do homework?” he said softly into the top of Peter’s hair.

 

Peter gave a weak protest, muffled against him. “I said I’d tutor you. You didn’t just sit around a cafe for three hours just for fun.”

 

Flash huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “We can do it later. Seriously. It’s not like the world’s ending if I don’t get what a parabola is tonight.” Peter shifted slightly, eyes downcast, cheeks blotchy. Flash reached for the laptop with his free hand and pulled up a streaming service. “Here. Pick something.”

 

Peter didn’t even argue again. He just blinked at the screen, scrolled half-heartedly, and picked some dumb comedy with bright colors and a laugh track. Something light. Easy. Mindless. Animated colors filled the screen, and Peter didn’t pull away. Flash didn’t care. He wasn’t watching anyway. He was too focused on how Peter hadn’t pulled away.

 

They shuffled back, leaning against the bed, still on the floor, legs sprawled.

 

For a while, the only sounds were the from the laptop. Peter’s breathing evened out, a little shaky still, but slower now. Flash couldn’t stop noticing the warmth of him pressed against his side, the way his hair brushed against Flash’s arm every time he shifted. The words burned a hole in his chest before he even realized he was saying them.

 

“Hey. I… I’m sorry. Again.”

 

Peter blinked, sluggish and heavy-lidded, but didn’t move.

 

Flash swallowed hard. “For all the shitty stuff I said. Before. I wasn’t - I mean, I didn’t mean-" His tongue stumbled, the apology tangling into itself. “I just… I feel bad, okay? I was a dick.”

 

Peter’s mouth quirked faintly, the tiniest ghost of a smile. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “Doesn’t matter.”

 

Flash shook his head before he could stop himself. “It does matter.” He shifted, frustrated with how clumsy it all sounded. “I’m trying, alright? I just… I’ve never really been in this position before and it’s-" He cut himself off, fingers twitching against the couch cushion. “Weird,” he finished lamely.

 

Peter let out a low snort, dry and a little wry.

 

“Shit, sorry.” Flash winced, raking a hand through his hair. “That came out mean again. I didn’t mean it like - ugh.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Forget it.” Peter’s gaze softened, but he didn’t answer. Flash sucked in a breath, pushing forward anyway. “I would’ve given you that money, you know. For free. I’ve got - like - money to blow. You don’t need to…” He trailed off, struggling to string the thought together.

 

“I don’t need pity money,” Peter muttered, head tilting slightly against Flash’s shoulder.

 

“It’s not pity money.” The words rushed out too fast, fumbling to catch up with himself. “It’s not. I just - I don’t know how to-" He broke off, staring down at his hands. “I snap sometimes. Or say mean shit. It just… comes out before I can stop it. And then I feel like an asshole. I don’t mean it, I just need, like… a second. To think.”

 

Peter’s eyes slid half-shut, lashes fanning against his cheek. He didn’t say anything.

 

Flash swallowed, and tried again. “It feels like shit whenever you don’t take my money. Or - when you don’t tell me what’s going on. Because it’s like you’re turning me down, and-" He broke off, throat dry, pulse hammering. Peter’s breathing had gone soft, even. Maybe he was falling asleep. Maybe that was better. Maybe he wouldn’t hear what came next.

 

Flash swallowed hard. His chest ached like someone was tightening a fist around his ribs.

 

“I like you,” he blurted. The words sounded raw and stupid in the quiet room. “A lot. Obviously. I mean - I kissed you, and that’s - yeah. So. I care. I just… I’m bad at showing it, I think.”

 

For a second, he thought Peter had drifted off entirely. But then Peter hummed, low and tired, and pressed just a little closer against him.

 

“You’re not that bad,” Peter murmured, voice a sliver of sound, warm against Flash’s shirt.

 

“I’m terrible,” Flash breathed incredulously. “This is all - it’s all my fault.”

 

Peter just hummed, then shrugged. He didn’t look at him. Didn’t move away either. Just sank further into his side, and his hair smelled faintly like laundry detergent and city air. His breaths started hitching unevenly, damp against Flash’s shirt, and Flash’s own arms just… closed around him, like his body had been waiting for an excuse.

 

It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that rang in Flash’s ears because it left too much room for his brain to fill in the blanks.

 

Peter sniffled once, then went still. Then he melted, pressing his forehead against Flash’s collarbone, and Flash sat there, heart thundering. He kept his arms around Peter anyway. The computer kept playing, and Flash couldn’t follow the plot if his life depended on it. All he could do was stare at the screen, too bright, while his peripheral vision kept catching on the dark curls brushing his shoulder, the slope of Peter’s back under his palm.

 

Flash swallowed hard. He should say something. Joke about Peter drooling on him. Ask if he was comfortable. Suggest they actually do the homework, because wasn’t that the point?

 

But he didn’t.

 

Because Peter was heavy and warm against him. Because Peter had stopped shivering. Because if Flash breathed too loudly, too sharply, he might wake him - and he couldn’t bear the thought of Peter pulling away, of losing this fragile, stolen moment.

 

So he sat. Perfectly still. Wide awake. Brain a hurricane.

 

—

 

Flash hadn’t planned on this.

 

He’d planned on Peter showing up, maybe arguing with him about algebra until Flash’s eyes glazed over, maybe teasing him until Flash snapped, maybe making fun of how hopeless Flash was at fractions. Somehow Flash had wrapped his arms around him, and now here they were: Flash staring blankly at the bright flickering screen, and Peter asleep - asleep - against his chest.

 

Well, almost asleep.

 

Because just as Flash’s chest was starting to ache with the weight of all the things he couldn’t say, Peter stirred. A little shift, a hitch in his breathing, his lashes fluttering against Flash’s shirt. Then a muffled voice, cracked and small: “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

 

Flash nearly jolted. His hands twitched where they rested on Peter’s back. “No - dude. It’s fine. It’s… totally fine.” His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he cleared his throat. “You’re tired. Just - yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Peter made a noise that could’ve been agreement or just exhaustion. He didn’t pull away, though. His forehead stayed pressed into Flash’s collarbone. His whole body still leaned against him, heavier than before, like the apology had taken the last of his fight.

 

“Seriously,” Flash added, softer this time. “Don’t worry.”

 

And then Peter was quiet again. The thing about Peter - what made Flash’s brain short-circuit - was that he didn’t look fragile, not really. He looked wiry and stubborn, like he’d bite before he’d break. But up close, like this, in Flash’s arms? He was small. Too warm. His bones felt like they pressed sharp under Flash’s hand, like maybe he hadn’t been eating enough.

 

Flash hated noticing that. Hated how much it made his throat close up.

 

He forced his eyes to the laptop, but none of it stuck. Cartoons bounced around, bright colors and dumb jokes, but it all slid off Flash’s brain. His mind kept circling the same dizzying thought: Peter Parker is asleep on me. Peter Parker trusts me enough to fall asleep here.

 

And that was insane. Because Peter hated him. Or - he was supposed to. That was the dynamic, right? Peter rolled his eyes, Flash made a dumb comment, Peter called him a dick, Flash pretended it didn’t sting. That was their rhythm. That was safe.

 

This was something else entirely.

 

Peter shifted to look up at him, bleary-eyed, blinking like he didn’t know where he was. His hair was sticking up in five different directions. “You, uh - do you want to stay for the night?” Flash asked, voice too awkward in the quiet.

 

Peter rubbed at his face. “No, I - ugh. I should head back. May’s probably worrying.” His voice went sharp for a second, panicked. “Crap, she’s definitely worrying. I should’ve texted-"

 

“You can stay,” Flash blurted, too fast. Then he winced, tried to make it sound more casual. “I mean, it’s late. You can crash here if you want.”

 

Peter hesitated, guilt pinching his mouth. “I… no. I gotta go back. She’ll think I disappeared.”

 

Flash swallowed disappointment, tried to cover it with a shrug. “Okay. I’ll drive you.”

 

—

 

The car ride was quiet. Too quiet. Peter slouched in the passenger seat, head tipped toward the window, eyes heavy-lidded. He looked seconds from sleep. Flash gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. He wanted to say something to break the silence, to make it feel less like every second was pressing down on him. But Peter looked so worn down. Flash didn’t want to push.

 

By the time they pulled up to Peter’s building, Peter was already blinking slow, fighting to keep his eyes open. Flash threw the car in park and sat there, heart hammering. “Hey, uh - wait a sec before you go.”

 

Peter’s hand froze on the door handle. He turned, brows furrowed. “What?”

 

Flash dug his wallet out of his pocket. His fingers fumbled, his chest tight. “Here.”

 

Peter blinked, then grimaced. “Flash, you don’t-"

 

“Peter,” Flash said quickly, then stopped, exhaled hard. “Just - give me a second, okay?”

 

Peter sank back into the seat, eyebrows still pulled together, while Flash tried to untangle the words in his head. He could feel them all jamming up, fighting each other, none of them coming out right. Finally, he managed, “I want to help you. But I can only help you if you let me. Just… take the money. Please.”

 

His voice cracked on the last word. He hated it. Peter’s hands shook when he finally took it. His eyes were wide and wet, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

 

“Flash…”  

 

And then, before Flash could brace himself, Peter leaned over and kissed him. It was quick, shaky, almost clumsy. But it was a kiss. Flash’s heart lurched. He pulled back instinctively, words tumbling out. “Don’t - don’t pay me back like that.”

 

Peter blinked at him, startled. Then he softened. His voice went quiet, but steady. “I’m not. I’m kissing you because I want to.”

 

And then he kissed him again. Longer this time. Surer. Flash froze for half a second before his body betrayed him, arms moving without permission, pulling Peter in. Peter sprawled half across the console, pressed to his chest. Flash held on like if he let go, Peter might vanish. He didn’t know how long it lasted. Just that when Peter finally pulled away, Flash’s chest ached with the sudden emptiness.

 

“I should go,” Peter said, voice low. He slipped out of the car, slung his bag over his shoulder. 

 

Flash cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’ll… um. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

Peter’s lip quirked up tiredly, before he turned and disappeared inside the building. After the door slid shut behind him, Flash sat there, head in his hands, and his breath shaking out of him in uneven bursts.

 

“Fuuuuck,” he muttered into the dark.

 

—

 

Peter hadn’t meant to wake up thinking about Flash.

 

He really hadn’t. There were about a hundred other things to think about - rent, May’s double shifts, the overdue electric bill, the fact that he still hadn’t finished his chemistry homework - but none of those things stuck. His brain, traitorous as always, circled back around to the car. The wad of money still tucked in his bag. The way Flash had shoved it at him like it was nothing, like it was easy for him, while Peter’s fingers had trembled just taking it.

 

And the kiss.

 

God, the kiss.

 

Peter buried his face in his pillow, groaning. Because that had been so stupid. He’d kissed Flash Thompson, of all people. Again. Flash - the same guy who’d made his freshman year a living hell. The guy who had tripped him in the cafeteria, who’d called him names, who’d made fun of him every chance he got.

 

And Peter had kissed him. Twice. Three times, now.

 

Worse - he hadn’t regretted it. He should’ve. It would’ve been sensible, logical, normal, to regret it. To spend the morning replaying it in horror, vowing never to speak to Flash again, pretending it hadn’t happened. That would’ve been the smart thing to do.

 

But instead, Peter kept remembering the way Flash’s chest had felt under his hands, solid and broad and safe. The way Flash had pulled him in like he wanted him there. The way he’d whispered please when he’d tried to hand him the money back. It was pathetic. Peter was pathetic. He had awful taste and an even worse sense of self-preservation.

 

And yet, when he dragged himself into school that morning, half-running on stubbornness and half on nerves, he couldn’t help glancing down the hall toward Flash’s locker. Couldn’t help the quick spike in his chest when he saw him there, leaning against the metal door as he scrolled through his phone like he owned the whole place.

 

Peter told himself he wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t going to make things weird. He’d just keep his head down, get to class, pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.

 

Except his feet didn’t listen.

 

“Uh - hey,” Peter said, voice catching in his throat as he came up to the locker.

 

Flash looked up, eyes flicking to him immediately. No hesitation. Like he’d been waiting for him. “Hey.”

 

Peter’s heart did something dumb and skippy in his chest. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, tried not to look as nervous as he felt. “I, uh - I just wanted to say thanks. For last night. For… y’know. The money. You didn’t need to give me that much.”

 

He hated how small his voice sounded. How guilty. Flash shrugged like it was nothing. “Just take it, okay? Don’t… try to give it back this time.”

 

He reached out and gave Peter’s arm a quick squeeze, casual, like it didn’t mean anything, but Peter’s whole body went hot. His knees nearly buckled. He wanted to melt into the touch, into the warmth of Flash’s palm through his sleeve. His skin buzzed where the pressure lingered, like it had burned straight through him.

 

He swallowed hard, trying not to let it show on his face.  

 

And then, of course, the universe had to remind him why he shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy anything. Some asshole from the football team strolled by, grinning, and smacked at Peter’s ass like it was the funniest joke in the world. 

 

“Nice one, Parker,” the guy jeered. Peter flinched, heat flooding his face. His first instinct was to curl in on himself, to pretend it hadn’t happened, to laugh it off like it didn’t bother him. He’d had enough practice at that over the years.

 

But before he could, Flash pulled Peter closer with a sharp tug, his body sliding between Peter and the other guy like a wall. “Fuck off.”

 

The guy blinked, snorted, and raised his hands like it wasn’t worth it. “Relax, man. Jesus. Was just a joke.” He wandered off down the hall, laughing to himself.

 

Peter’s heart was thudding so hard he could feel it in his throat. His chest felt warmer than it had in weeks. Flash let go a second later, shoulders tense. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

 

Peter blinked up at him. “What-? No. Don’t - don’t apologize. That wasn’t your fault.”

 

But Flash still looked guilty, “but… it kind of is.”

 

Peter wanted to say something else - something stupid - but the bell rang, loud and shrill, cutting him off. He gave Flash a wobbly smile instead. Flash’s eyes softened for a split second, like maybe he understood anyway. And then the hallway erupted with movement, kids streaming to class, and the moment was gone. But Peter carried it with him the whole day.

 

And that was dangerous. That was stupid. That was Peter Parker in a nutshell.

 

Because he knew better than anyone that Flash was trouble. That Flash had a sharp tongue and a worse temper and no idea how to handle delicate things.

 

But Peter couldn’t stop himself. He thought about the squeeze on his arm. About the look in Flash’s eyes when he’d said take the money. About the way he’d kissed him in the car, in his kitchen, in Flash’s bedroom, and how Flash had kissed him back.

 

And every time, his stomach twisted, his chest fluttered, and he thought: I’m in so much trouble.

 

—

 

Peter hadn’t even been looking that long.

 

That was the problem.

 

He’d told himself he wouldn’t - he really wouldn’t - because that was the kind of mistake only a complete idiot would make. But then Flash had walked into the cafeteria, tray in hand, and Peter’s eyes had just… drifted. Like gravity had tilted toward him. Like every molecule in Peter’s body was oriented wrong and trying to line up to him instead.

 

And then it wasn’t just looking. It was staring.

 

Flash had said something to a guy at his table, laughing a little, and Peter’s brain had immediately started replaying the sound of it. He shifted in his chair, trying to pretend he wasn’t doing it, trying to pretend his stomach wasn’t swooping like he’d been yanked off a rooftop. He turned his head, desperate to shake himself out of it, and nearly fell out of his chair when he saw Ned and MJ across the table - both of them staring at him.

 

Peter winced.

 

“Dude,” Ned said flatly.

 

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opened it one more time. “…Okay. Wait. Look. Hear me out.”

 

MJ didn’t even blink. “You did not just ‘hear me out’ with Flash. I did not just hear you say that.”

 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, feeling heat crawl up from his collar. “I - no, I just-"

 

“Did you get concussed last night?” Ned asked, squinting at him. “Because it was funny before, but like…” He waved a hand in Peter’s general direction, as if Peter’s face explained everything.

 

“The yearning across the cafeteria is too much,” MJ said, deadpan.

 

Peter’s mouth fell open. “I’m not-"

 

“Eyefucking,” Ned corrected, and Peter immediately choked on his drink.

 

“Ned,” Peter hissed, coughing into his sleeve, eyes watering. “Shut up! I’m not-!”

 

“Oh my God,” MJ muttered, leaning back with her arms crossed. “He’s not denying it.”

“I am denying it!” Peter’s voice cracked. “I’m - this isn’t-"

 

Ned leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Peter. Come on, man. You’re sitting here giving him the longing stares.”

 

“I was not-"

 

“Longing stares,” MJ repeated.

 

Peter groaned, dragging both hands over his face until he was sure he’d rubbed his skin raw. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He wanted a supervillain to crash through the cafeteria just so he could swing out the window and never come back. Instead, he let his forehead drop onto the table with a thud. “I hate you both.”

 

“No, you hate yourself,” MJ said calmly. “For having catastrophic taste in men.”

 

Ned nodded solemnly. “This is worse than when you said you kinda got the whole Kylo Ren thing.”

 

“That was one time!” Peter wailed into the table.

 

“You defended it,” Ned shot back. “No, this is worse. Flash literally thinks you’re a sex worker.” Peter made a strangled noise into the laminate. “Nothing wrong with that,” Ned added quickly when MJ turned her glare on him. “I just mean - he said it. Like out loud. He thought-"

 

Peter didn’t lift his head. Didn’t move an inch. If he stayed face-down long enough, maybe the table would absorb him. Maybe he’d just melt into the surface, become one with the furniture, and never have to face this conversation again.

 

“Unbelievable,” MJ muttered. “You’ve fought people with alien weapons, Peter. You’ve fought robots. You’ve fought, like, four different Avengers. And this - Flash Thompson - is what takes you out?”

 

Peter moaned louder, the sound muffled against the table.

 

“Tragic,” Ned said gravely. “So tragic.”

 

And the thing was - they weren’t wrong. That was the worst part. Because Peter did have terrible taste. He knew that. He could see it. Objectively, Flash was the exact kind of person he should’ve run from screaming. And yet every time he thought about the way Flash’s hand had felt on his arm, or the way he’d stood in front of him in the hall, or the way he’d looked at him last night in the car- 

 

Peter wanted to melt right through the floor.

 

“I heard about the newest rumor,” Ned said. “It’s not even believable. Everyone knows that guy lies about everything.” Peter groaned louder. “Besides,” Ned went on, merciless, “Peter, I know you’d - hypothetically, of course - charge more than that.”

 

Peter’s whole body jerked in mortified protest. His face burned against his sleeve, both because of the shame at the fact that they weren’t just rumors anymore or the relief that they believed they still were.

 

MJ tilted her juice box and considered him like she was debating whether to twist the knife. Then she did, with surgical precision. “You do have a nice ass,” she said mildly.

 

The sound that ripped out of Peter was half snort, half strangled laugh, wholly humiliating. He didn’t lift his head. He didn’t dare. Ned made a noise of agreement. “Yeah, okay, fine. But it doesn’t excuse his atrocious taste in-"

 

“Shut up,” Peter begged into the table, voice muffled. His ears were on fire. His brain was trying to leave his skull. “I’m not - look. I kissed him once. Twice. Or-"

 

Ned groaned. “Dude.” His voice was full of pain. And also pity. Too much pity.

 

Peter risked peeling his face off his arms. His hair stuck up weird from being pressed against the desk, but that was the least of his problems. He looked between his friends, desperation painted all over his face. “Look,” he tried again, words tumbling out too fast. “It’s - you need to hear me out.”

 

“Stop saying that,” MJ warned.

 

“No, really-"

 

“Every time you say that,” she said, “you make it worse.”

 

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his face with both hands. “I just-" He couldn’t even form the sentence. He could feel Ned’s horror and MJ’s judgment and the rumors and the heat creeping up his neck. His stomach turned over in knots.

 

“You just what?” Ned prompted, but his tone said he already didn’t want the answer.

 

Peter’s brain scrambled. He tried to put words to it, but none of them sounded sane. He could try he’s not that bad if you actually talk to him, but that would sound like Stockholm syndrome. He could try he’s different when it’s just us, but that would sound like the plot to every disastrous teen drama ever. He could even try he gave me money and saved me from getting groped in the hallway like some kind of knight with anger management issues, but that sounded completely insane.

 

His mouth opened anyway. “It’s complicated,” he said helplessly.

 

“It’s not,” MJ said.

 

Peter pressed his palms into his eyes. His entire life was one long, humiliating bit, and his friends were the audience laughing at him. They both just stared at him. Waiting. Expecting. Peter wilted under it. He slumped forward again, face finding the cool surface of the table, and groaned. “Never mind.”

 

He gave up.

 

Peter didn’t move. Not even a twitch. He stayed collapsed, face pressed against the table, wishing for the mercy of unconsciousness. Maybe if he held still long enough, they’d get bored and start talking about something normal, like chemistry homework or how the cafeteria’s pizza tasted like damp cardboard. No such luck.

 

“So.” Ned’s voice was cautious, but in the way you’re cautious when you’re about to poke a wasp nest with a stick. “Just to clarify. You kissed him once. Maybe twice.”

 

Peter groaned into the desk.

 

“Or more.”

 

Peter’s groan deepened into something that was less sound and more animal death noise. MJ leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Peter. Do you want us to stage an intervention? Blink twice if you’re in danger.”

 

“I’m not-" His voice cracked as he lifted his head just enough to glare at her through his hair. “I don’t need an intervention.”

 

“Pretty sure you do.” She took a sip of her juice box.

 

Ned winced. “Dude. Out of all the people - like literally all of them - you pick him?”

 

Peter opened his mouth, ready to say something defensive and clever and reasonable. What came out instead was, “He’s not-"

 

Both of them groaned in unison, like a chorus of disappointment. “No,” MJ said flatly.

 

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Ned warned.

 

Peter bristled. He sat up straighter, flailing for dignity. “You don’t get it! He’s-"

 

“Still Flash,” MJ interrupted.

 

“Yeah, still the same guy who’s been calling you Penis since middle school,” Ned added miserably.

 

Peter’s ears burned. He dragged his hands down his face. “I know,” he said, voice strangled. “I know, okay? I don’t - ugh. It’s not like I - It just-" He fumbled, dropped half his words, and finally muttered, “It’s complicated.”

 

“You keep saying that,” MJ said, unamused.

 

“Because it is!”

 

“How?”

 

Peter froze. Because he didn’t have an answer that didn’t make him sound pathetic. Because the truth was that complicated really meant sometimes he gives me money, sometimes he touches my arm, sometimes he saves me from jerks in the hallway, and my dumb heart thinks that means something even though it obviously doesn’t.

 

So instead he said nothing.

 

MJ raised her brows. “Exactly.”

 

Ned sighed and stabbed at his mashed potatoes with his fork. “Peter, buddy, listen. I love you. You know that, right?” Peter nodded miserably into his sleeve. “Then you have to know this is a bad idea.”

 

“I’m not saying it’s a good idea!” Peter shot back, sitting up again, eyes wild. “I’m just saying - it’s not - you don’t understand!”

 

“Try us,” MJ said.

 

Peter stared at her. His brain, traitor that it was, immediately served up a slideshow of every humiliating reason why Flash’s hand on his arm had made him feel like melting, why that stupid protective move in the hallway had made his chest warm. He could not say any of that out loud. He would literally self-destruct.

 

So he just sat there. Silent. Face burning.

 

They stared back.

 

Seconds ticked by. The clatter of the cafeteria filled the void. Peter caved first. He dropped his head back to the table with a thunk. “Forget it.”

 

“Uh-huh,” MJ said.

 

“You realize,” Ned said carefully, “that if you keep this up, people are gonna think the rumors are true.”

 

Peter made a weak noise of protest. His heart twisted. They didn’t know the rumors were true now. Or at least…true enough. And that fact was chewing him alive from the inside. “I mean,” MJ added, merciless, “they’re already half-convinced. You’re not exactly subtle.”

 

“I’m subtle!” Peter protested, voice muffled against the wood.

 

“You just admitted you kissed him multiple times,” Ned pointed out.

 

“That was hypothetical!”

 

“Uh-huh,” MJ said again. Peter let out a strangled, helpless laugh. It sounded a little hysterical even to him. His chest ached. He wanted to crawl under the table and never come out. They didn’t let up.

 

“So when did this start?” Ned asked.

 

“It didn’t,” Peter muttered.

 

“What, you just accidentally fell onto his mouth? Twice?”

 

MJ snorted. “Classic Parker move.”

 

Peter covered his face again. His pulse hammered. Every excuse he thought of sounded worse than the last. We were alone. He was nice. He didn’t make fun of me that time. He gave me money. None of them helped. All of them made him look like he had the world’s worst taste, which, fair.

 

He peeked out from between his fingers. “It’s not - he’s not - I don’t even like him like that.”

 

“Sure,” MJ said.

 

“Totally believable,” Ned added, nodding solemnly.

 

Peter groaned so loud heads turned at nearby tables.

 

—

 

The lab always smelled faintly of solder, ozone, and whatever leftovers Tony had been eating. Normally, Peter liked it. It smelled like invention. Like possibility. Tonight, though, he was just too tired to think about it.

 

His feet dragged as he stepped off the elevator, his backpack slumping off one shoulder. He’d nearly dozed off during his last class, nearly tripped on the stairs coming out of the school before realising that, oh, the black car honking at him was for him. Because it was a Thursday. Right. He probably should’ve gone home. His brain was molasses.

 

And then he saw it.

 

Takeout. Mountains of it.

 

Neat stacks of containers were spread across his workbench, a ridiculous rainbow of cardboard and plastic and foil, each one labeled with Sharpie scrawls. Dumplings. Fried rice. Lo mein. Two different curries. Noodles with sesame and chili oil. A box of naan stacked beside a container of something creamy and orange. Even a couple things that looked suspiciously like pizza slices wrapped in foil.

 

Peter’s stomach made a humiliating noise.

 

“-Oh, you’re alive. Good.” Tony’s voice drifted over from the other side of the lab. He was half-buried under a table, as he waved one gloved hand vaguely in Peter’s direction without looking up. “Go nuts.”

 

Peter blinked at the bench, then back at Tony. “What - what’s all this?”

 

“Dinner.”

 

“This is… like five dinners.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Tony slid out from under the table, goggles pushed up onto his hair, looking tired but wired the way he always did. He gestured at the containers with a wrench. “You’re a growing boy.”

 

Peter froze. Heat crawled up his neck. 

 

When he’d asked if Peter had been eating, and Peter had said yes - Tony had given him a look, unreadable, and then let it drop. And now… this. He swallowed hard. His brain itched with the thought: He thinks you have an eating disorder. He thinks you’re a mess. He feels sorry for you.

 

But the smell of sesame oil and curry was filling the air, and his stomach didn’t care about his pride.

 

Peter sat down at the bench, tried to be casual, popped open the first container he touched. Lo mein. The noodles were still warm, glossy with sauce, the smell hitting him like a punch. He didn’t even bother with the chopsticks, just grabbed a fork and shoveled a bite into his mouth. It was bliss. Salty, savory, hot.

 

His body lit up like he’d been plugged in.

 

Ten minutes later, two containers were gone. Just… gone. His fork scraped the bottom of the second, a little too loud in the quiet of the lab. Tony’s voice cut through, dry. “Hey, slow down, kid. Pace yourself. I don’t wanna send you home sick.”

 

Peter froze. Fork in mid-air.

 

“And seriously,” Tony added, not even glancing up from the tablet he was scrolling through, “if you keep eating like that, I’m gonna start thinking you’re only here for the food.”

 

The words hit harder than they should’ve. A joke, obviously. But Peter’s throat tightened anyway.

 

He’s right.

 

The guilt bloomed instantly, sour in his chest. He forced a laugh, but it came out weak. He set the fork down. Pushed the empty containers away. You’re being greedy. Gross. You should’ve saved some for May. You didn’t even ask. You just inhaled it like some kind of animal.

 

He shoved the guilt down as best he could, stood up too quickly, chair legs screeching against the floor. “I, uh - I’m gonna, um-" He gestured vaguely toward Tony, who was bent over a circuit board now. “What’re you working on?”

 

Anything to get away from the food. From the guilt gnawing at him. 

 

Tony glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Oh, now you’re interested.”

 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I’m always interested.”

 

Tony gave him a long look, like he was trying to decide whether to call him out or let it slide. Finally, he turned the circuit board toward him. “Miniaturized stabilizer array. Version four. Which is to say, the version where it maybe won’t explode.”

 

Peter leaned in, grateful for the distraction. The board gleamed under the work light, neat rows of components soldered with Tony’s usual precision. Wires snaked out to a small prototype housing.

 

“Cool,” Peter murmured, squinting. His stomach was still heavy, still buzzing with guilt. But for the moment, he let himself focus on the tech. On Tony’s voice, steady and wry as he explained.

 

The stabilizer array looked deceptively simple. Just a circuit board the size of Peter’s hand, dotted with capacitors and resistors, a set of wires feeding into a half-built casing. But the way Tony hunched over it, the frown line between his brows, told Peter it was anything but. “See this?” Tony tapped a fingernail against one of the chips, then leaned back with a sigh. “This little bastard’s the problem. Keeps blowing out when I try to run the array at higher loads. Can’t decide if it’s the chip or the fact that I’m too smart for my own good and tried to make the thing power a jet engine.”

 

Peter tilted his head, eyes tracking the layout. His brain was moving slowly, like trudging through mud, but the circuits were familiar ground. Safe. They had rules, even if Tony liked to bend them. “You… wired the bypass in series, not parallel.” His voice came out scratchy, slow. “That’s why it’s overloading. It’s trying to take the whole current instead of sharing the load.”

 

Tony blinked at him, then looked back at the board. “Huh.”

 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean - you probably already knew that, I just-"

 

“Nope,” Tony cut in, mouth quirking. “Didn’t. Was too busy blaming the chip. Nice catch, Underoos.”

 

Peter felt his ears warm. He ducked his head, pretending to study the board again. Compliments always sat weird in his chest, like they didn’t know where to land. Especially from Tony. Especially when Tony already gave him so much.

 

Too much.

 

The smell of the food still clung to the air. He could feel the weight of it in his stomach - two containers gone, greedy, selfish. He should’ve saved them. Should’ve tucked one into his backpack for May, who would probably come home late tonight with tired eyes and sore feet. Instead, he’d wolfed it down in less than ten minutes, like some starved animal.

 

Tony probably thought he was disgusting.

 

“You gonna tell me what else I messed up, or are you just gonna sit there looking like you’re about to apologize to the motherboard?” Tony’s voice was light, teasing.

 

Peter startled, shaking himself back into the moment. “Uh - no, I mean - just that one thing. The rest looks solid.”

 

Tony snorted. “High praise from the kid who built web shooters out of his high school lab kit.” He nudged a tray of components toward Peter. “Here. Since you’re already playing teacher, make yourself useful.”

 

Peter slid onto the stool, grateful for something to do with his hands. He picked up the soldering iron, adjusted the wires. His movements were a little clumsy - he was too tired, muscles heavy, but the rhythm of fixing things soothed him.

 

Tony leaned back, watching. “So. You’ve got, what, two containers left in you before you pass out on my bench?”

 

Peter winced. “I - I wasn’t gonna eat more. I mean - I should, uh, save some for May.” The words stumbled out before he could stop them, and instantly his chest clenched. Why’d you say that? Now he knows you were thinking about it. Now he knows you’re greedy.

 

Tony just shrugged. “Take whatever you want, kid. I ordered too much on purpose.”

 

Peter’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just hunched lower over the circuit board, pretending to focus.

 

The truth pressed heavy against his ribs: he didn’t want to go home tonight. Didn’t want to walk through the door and see the stack of bills on the table, May rubbing her temples as she tried to stretch the budget. Didn’t want to sit in his room and listen to the radiator groan, knowing she was probably skipping dinner again to make things stretch, if she even had her appetite back.

 

Here, at least, the lights stayed on without a second thought. The air was warm. The fridge was always full.

 

He wanted - God, he wanted - to just stay. Curl up on one of the Tower’s too-soft couches, let himself breathe without the weight pressing down.

 

The thought itched at him. He could ask for help. Tony wouldn’t say no. But if he did - if he admitted he needed help with rent, with groceries - what would Tony think? That he was only here for handouts. That he was using him. May would be disappointed, or upset, that he’d asked for help on her behalf. She was proud. She’d raised him better.

 

So he kept his mouth shut.

 

The soldering iron hissed as he set it back in its stand. “There. Fixed.”

 

Tony leaned over, inspecting his work with a critical eye. Then he nodded once. “Not bad.”

 

Peter’s chest warmed despite himself. Every so often, his eyelids drooped, head tilting toward the bench, but then Tony would throw in some sarcastic comment and jolt him awake again.

 

Hours slipped by like that, the quiet hum of the lab wrapping around him like a blanket.

 

Eventually, Tony pushed his chair back, stretching until his spine cracked. “Alright, that’s enough science for tonight. You look like you’re about to keel over.” Peter blinked blearily at the clock. Midnight. He hadn’t even noticed. “You heading home?” Tony asked, casual.

 

The word caught in Peter’s throat. Home. The bills. May’s tired eyes. The weight waiting for him. He hesitated too long, and Tony filled the silence.

 

“Your room’s still here if you want it,” he said simply, gesturing toward the corner. “Or the couch is free. There’s blankets in the cabinet.”

 

Peter’s heart lurched. Relief hit him so hard he almost sagged against the bench. He nodded quickly, muttered, “Thanks,” before he could ruin it by overthinking.

 

The couch was too soft, the blanket smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something expensive, and Peter felt guilty the second he curled up on it. Guilty for staying, for taking. But his body was too heavy to move. His eyelids dropped.

 

And for once, he let himself sleep.

 

—

 

The sheets should have been perfect. 

 

They were perfect - smooth, crisp, like slipping into a hotel bed that cost more per night than Peter’s entire rent for the month. The mattress didn’t dip in the middle, didn’t squeak every time he shifted his weight, didn’t threaten to collapse from age. His body should have been tricked into believing this was the safest, most comfortable sleep he’d ever get.

 

But Peter lay flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and comfort wasn’t doing a damn thing. The guilt bled through all of it. It followed him like a shadow, crawling under his skin. Every time he closed his eyes, it was there - the replay of the kiss, the warmth of Flash’s hand in his hair, the way Peter had let it happen instead of stopping it. His body had betrayed him with how easy it had been to melt into it, to lose himself for just long enough to forget. He tried to think of something else, but then he just thought of May at home.

 

When he thought of May, he thought of the two-hundred and fifty dollars tucked into her jacket coat pocket.

 

He rolled onto his side. Rolled back. Sat up. Stared at the far wall, then at the ceiling again. His fists clutched at the sheets, twisting them, as if ruining the perfect linen might somehow balance out how ruined he felt. Hours passed like that. Hours of lying there, trying to force sleep to come, waiting for guilt to wear itself out.

 

It didn’t.

 

Eventually, Peter swung his legs off the bed. He pulled on the suit and packed up his containers of untouched leftovers from the empty lab fridge downstairs. His body moved on autopilot, the decision already made long before his brain caught up. He couldn’t stand being here anymore. Not when May was still at home, probably asleep alone in the dark apartment, probably worrying even in her dreams.

 

He grabbed his backpack, slinging the straps over his shoulder, and cracked open the window. The city air rushed in, damp and cold, and for the first time that night he felt something like relief.

 

Because no matter how soft the bed was, no matter how many thread counts the sheets boasted, he’d never sleep easy. Guilt didn’t care about comfort. Guilt followed him everywhere.

 

And if he couldn’t quiet it, then at least he could be there. Even if May never knew he came back, even if she was already asleep and never stirred when he unlocked the door, he wanted her not to be alone.

 

He swung into the night, containers rattling in his bag, headed home.

 

—

 

Hours later, when the sun cracked through his windows and Peter was still staring up at his water-damaged ceiling, he realized that it didn’t matter where he was because his guilt followed him home, even when he tried to fix it. 

 

He just couldn’t sleep.

 

—

 

Peter dragged himself through the front doors of Midtown. 

 

His head was heavy, each step landing wrong in his sneakers, almost clumsy from exhaustion. The halls already smelled like stale coffee and cheap perfume, and the noise of everyone’s chatter stabbed at the inside of his skull. Peter wanted to fold himself in half and disappear into the cracks in the linoleum, but instead he forced his legs to keep moving. He shoved his backpack higher up his shoulder and focused on counting the steps to his locker.

 

He still felt sick. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, because the first thing he’d saw was another bill taped crooked to the fridge this morning before May had left. This one water. The numbers circled in red pen, glaring at him. He hadn’t even had time to look too close before he left, but he didn’t need to - he already knew it was bad. They’d been multiplying lately, creeping into stacks on the counter, more each day. And May - she’d been gone. Not just working more, but gone. Peter had come home to an empty apartment more than once this week, the silence inside louder than anything.

 

And the money he had scraped together, the two hundred and fifty… it should have helped. And now it was like it had been swallowed whole. Like no matter what he tried to do, the hole just got deeper.

 

He snapped the lock on his locker, jaw tight. His stomach twisted at the thought of breakfast - or the lack of it. He was hungry. All the time, gnawing at him from the inside out. He could almost hear his body chanting: food, food, food.

 

Peter blinked, and someone was standing right next to him. Too close. He flinched before he could stop himself, body jerking sideways like he’d been caught in the middle of something.

 

The guy wasn’t in his grade - older, maybe, someone who shouldn’t have even cared about him. He leaned one arm on the lockers, and Peter looked away.

 

“Hey,” the guy said, lowering his voice just enough that Peter had to strain to hear. “I heard you… you know. Do stuff.” Peter froze. His heart skipped a beat, then picked up double speed, pounding so hard it felt like it rattled his ribs. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t breathe. The guy didn’t wait for him to. He just slipped a folded stack of cash halfway out of his pocket, like it was a magician’s trick, and said, “Five hundred. Up front.”

 

Peter stared at it. Five hundred. More than double what he’d managed to scrape together the last time. Five hundred dollars for - his throat went tight - for what, exactly? It didn’t matter. Not really.

 

Five hundred meant bills. Five hundred meant groceries that weren’t expired ramen cups and apples bruised half to death. Five hundred meant May might breathe easier, maybe even sleep a little. Five hundred meant he could stop pretending his stomach wasn’t devouring itself from the inside.

 

He wanted to say no. He really, really did. But the word wouldn’t come. It stuck, sour and heavy, on his tongue. All he could think about was the way his hands shook when he tried to hold a pencil in class yesterday, how he’d felt faint climbing the stairs. How he’d stopped counting the bruises mottling his skin from patrol, because there were too many.

 

His body didn’t care about pride. It cared about survival.

 

And he was so, so hungry.

 

—

 

Flash sat slouched against the cracked tile wall of the locker room, barely hearing his friends over the background noise of showers running and the stench of cheap deodorant. He was tugging absently at the strap of his gym bag when the conversation shifted - someone snorted, and then one of the guys said, loud enough for half the room to hear,

 

“You hear that Parker’s going rate went up? Some guy dropped five hundred on him.”

 

The laughter that followed was sharp, ugly. Flash’s stomach dropped. He didn’t say anything, just froze, fingers tight on the strap of his bag. The guys kept goingt. “Five hundred? For him?” one scoffed, wrinkling his nose. “That’s desperate.”

 

“Bet he takes it, though. How desperate do you gotta be to-"

 

The laughter rose again. Another voice cut in, low and mean: “Honestly, worth it just to shut him up for an hour. He’s got that pathetic face, you’d barely need to try.”

 

Flash swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. His ears buzzed. He stared down at the floor like if he just kept his eyes on the cracked linoleum he could tune it out. But it was impossible. The words stuck, clinging like grease. He hated this. He hated how casually they all talked about Peter, like he wasn’t even a person. Like it was just some game, some dirty joke to toss around between crunches and bad cologne. And the worst part was - it wasn’t just talk.

 

Because someone actually had offered. Five hundred.

 

Flash squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“Probably fucking lives in the hookup stall at this point.”

 

More laughter.

 

Flash heard his own voice before he even knew he’d spoken: “Where are they?”

 

The room quieted a little, a couple of heads turning his way. One of the guys raised an eyebrow. “Why? You want a go?”

 

The way he said it - smirking, crude - made Flash’s skin crawl. Flash stood, shoving his bag onto his shoulder. He didn’t bother answering, because he couldn’t trust what might come out of his mouth. He pushed past them, ignoring the laughter, ignoring the questions. His hands were clammy, his jaw tight.

 

Flash didn’t know why his legs were carrying him forward, or why his stomach was twisting like someone had poured wet cement into it and left it to set. He told himself he was just curious. That was it. Just - curious. His friends had been running their mouths in the hallway, laughing about it, trading crude lines about what Parker was doing in exchange for a couple bills, and Flash had tried to tune it out. He really had. But then someone said five hundred, and his head snapped up before he could stop himself.

 

And now here he was.

 

By the time he hit the hallway, his pulse was pounding so hard it made his vision swim. He hated himself for even thinking about it - for wanting to check, for needing to know. He walked faster, through the empty corridor that smelled faintly of bleach and old sweat, toward the back wing where no teachers ever bothered patrolling. His shoes squeaked against the tiles.

 

The bathroom smelled like bleach and piss, sour and sharp in the back of his throat. The tiles were that weird pale green that always looked dirtier than it actually was, with grout lines stained a shade darker from years of neglect. He wanted to turn around. He wanted to keep walking. But his chest was tight, and his fists kept clenching and unclenching, and for some reason his brain wouldn’t stop showing him Peter’s face from a couple nights before - pressed against his shoulder on Flash’s couch, warm and too-close, eyes rimmed red but still so careful when he smiled.

 

He shoved the thought down, hard, and walked past the guy who was leaving the last stall. The dude was still smirking, still wiping his hands like he’d just won something. “Thompson. You gonna take a turn?”

 

Flash didn’t even answer. Just pushed by him, his skin crawling.

 

Flash’s throat felt like it was closing. He didn’t answer. He refused to look at him, refusing to even acknowledge it. Because if he did - if he let himself say anything - he didn’t know what he might do.

 

It was quiet, too quiet. Just the faint hum of the flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant that never quite covered the stink of mildew. And somewhere down the row of stalls - silence.

 

His stomach churned.

 

Flash took a breath, trying to steady himself. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing anymore. All he knew was that he felt sick - sick at his friends, sick at himself, sick at the thought of Peter being here at all. He didn’t look back, didn’t want to see the smug curl of the guy’s mouth. It was gross. The whole thing was gross, and his stomach churned as he pushed deeper into the bathroom, trying not to think about what he already knew he was going to find.

 

The echo in here was harsh. Every step of his sneakers on the floor seemed loud, intrusive. The kind of silence that wasn’t real silence at all - just a held breath.

 

He slowed at the row of stalls. Some were open, doors hanging ajar. One was closed, though, the thin slit in the partition showing only darkness and the edge of a shoe. He didn’t even have to guess.

 

The stall door was shut. Someone was sitting inside. Flash could see the shoes, the slump of legs drawn in close, not stretched out like usual when someone was just scrolling their phone. He swallowed, throat bone-dry, and knocked on the metal once.

 

There was a noise - soft, low. Not quite a word. More like a hum, frayed at the edges.

 

“Parker?” His voice came out rougher than he meant. 

 

Silence.

 

“Uh-" Flash cleared his throat, voice catching in it. His tongue felt dry. He hated how shaky he sounded. “Hey. You in there?”

 

For a second, there was nothing. Just the hum of the flickering light overhead. Then, faintly, a sound - low and muffled, like the back of someone’s throat making a noise it didn’t mean to. 

 

Flash knocked gently on the stall door, not too hard, just enough to make the metal rattle. “It’s me,” he muttered. “Open up.”

 

Another sound, still not a word, but enough. His hand shook as he tried the door. It wasn’t locked.

 

Flash slipped in before he could think better of it and shut the stall behind him.

 

The space was claustrophobic, way too close. Peter was sitting on the ground, hunched over, elbows digging into his knees, hands dangling loose like he’d forgotten how to hold them. His face was pale, washed out under the fluorescent lights. His hair was damp at the edges, sticking to his forehead. His face - Jesus. His face was a mess. His mouth was red, wet, his cheek streaked where something had smeared. There was a shine on his chin, and his eyes weren’t really focusing.

 

“Jesus,” Flash muttered before he could stop himself. He pulled the door shut again, and flicked the lock back into place. His throat tightened. “Peter…”

 

Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up. Just let out this thin, frayed sound, like a hum pulled apart until it unraveled into nothing. His eyes stared at the tiled floor, red-rimmed and glazed.

 

Flash’s stomach lurched. He had to look away for half a second, had to breathe through his teeth. But then Peter made this little sound, sharp in his throat, like he’d just remembered someone was there with him, and Flash’s body moved before his brain could argue.

 

He grabbed a wad of toilet paper, tore too much of it off, and pressed it into Peter’s hand. “Here,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice soft, steady - anything but harsh. The last thing Peter needed was more harshness.

 

Peter just looked at it. His fingers didn’t even close.

 

Flash hesitated, then swore under his breath and crouched down in front of him. He tried not to think about it, about what the hell he was doing, about how wrong this was. He just reached up, careful, and wiped Peter’s chin with the crumpled tissue. The paper caught, dampened, tore a little under the drag. Peter winced, shoulders hitching like even the softest touch hurt.

 

Flash’s chest went cold. He froze halfway through the motion, guilt scorching up his throat. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I’m - I’m not trying to-"

 

“It’s fine,” Peter rasped, voice rough, raw like he’d scraped it down to nothing. His eyes stayed down, unfocused, lashes clumped wet at the corners.

 

Flash swallowed hard. He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop noticing the way Peter’s skin flushed hot around his nose and cheeks, the way his lips looked too red, too swollen, like they’d been pulled at over and over. He hated that his heart was hammering. He hated that part of him wanted to press his thumb to Peter’s mouth just to see if it was as soft as it looked.

 

Instead, he forced his hand to keep moving, blotting the damp off Peter’s jaw and cheek. He tried to make it clinical, impersonal. Just cleaning him up. Nothing else. But Peter flinched every time the paper touched him, tiny jerks he probably wasn’t even aware of, and Flash felt like the biggest asshole alive.

 

He couldn’t stop noticing the warmth of Peter’s skin under his fingers, the faint smell of soap and something else - something uniquely Peter - that made his stomach tighten. He caught himself leaning closer, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his knuckles, and immediately shoved the thought into a mental box labeled gross, because that’s what it had to be. Gross. Totally gross. Nothing else.

 

When the tissue disintegrated, he flushed it fast, like getting rid of the evidence, and grabbed another. He didn’t even think about how weird it was until he was already doing it again - tilting Peter’s chin up a little with the back of his knuckles, dabbing carefully at the corner of his mouth.

 

Peter let him. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at the floor between them, hands fisted tight in his jeans like he was trying to give his hands something to do. Flash could feel the curve of Peter’s jaw under his fingers, the faint tremor in his cheek from where he’d pressed the tissue, and his own pulse spiked against his ribs. Gross. Disgusting.

 

Flash’s chest hurt. He couldn’t even explain why. He wanted to shake him, tell him to stop, that he didn’t need to do this. That nobody should be treating him like this. But every time he opened his mouth, the words twisted into something sharp, something that would come out wrong, and he shut it again.

 

“Come on,” he finally managed, coaxing now, reaching for Peter’s arm. “Let’s get you up.”

 

Peter moved, but not really. It was mechanical, the way someone’s body might answer to muscle memory when their mind wasn’t behind it. Flash tugged slow, steady, until Peter’s weight tilted upward and off the dirty floor. He swayed, legs shaky, and caught himself against the stall’s metal divider.

 

Flash steadied him, both hands clamping down on his arms. Too thin. Too hot. His pulse beat under skin stretched tight, and Flash’s stomach twisted again. He shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t be touching him like this, but what else could he do? Just leave him here?

 

It was then he saw it: Peter’s belt undone. His throat went dry. He felt suddenly, violently sick. He should look away. He tried to look away. Instead, without thinking - because his brain short-circuited, defaulted to fixing, to cleaning up, to putting things back in order - his hand reached toward the buckle.

 

And Peter’s hand snapped out. Fingers closed like a vice around Flash’s wrist, fast and desperate. Peter’s grip trembled, but it was strong. His eyes were wide, wrecked, as he rasped, “Don’t.” His voice cracked on it. “I - just, don’t. Don’t.”

 

Flash froze. Shame crashed through him in a tidal wave. “Sorry,” he blurted, pulling his hand back like it had burned. “I wasn’t gonna - I didn’t mean - I was going to do it up, not-” He cut himself off, jaw clenched tight. Not that. He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

 

Peter fumbled with the belt himself, clumsy fingers jerking it through the loops until it was fixed. He squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders hunched in like he could make himself disappear.

 

Then, suddenly, he leaned.

 

Flash jolted, stiff, before he realized what was happening. Peter’s weight pressed into him, barely there, a feather-light lean that still felt like it crushed the air out of Flash’s chest. Like being chosen, but not in any way he could want. It was half a hug, half a collapse, Peter’s face buried just enough that Flash could smell the salt of sweat, the faint sour edge of sickness. His own arms hovered, unsure, before finally bracing Peter’s back.

 

Finally, he managed, voice low and unsteady, “Maybe… maybe you should go home. Just - stop for today. You don’t have to…” Flash heard himself say, voice ragged, betraying him. “Maybe you should go home. You don’t-” His jaw locked, and he forced the words out like broken glass. “You don’t need to do this.”

 

Peter’s shoulders tensed. His hands dug into his thighs, knuckles whitening. His eyes stayed fixed down, wet and burning. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, like glass ground to dust. “Are you just here to make me feel bad?”

 

His voice was hoarse, raw around the edges, like it hurt to speak. The words landed like a punch. Flash rocked back a little on his heels, mouth dry. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His chest felt too tight. He hadn’t meant - dammit.

 

“No. I - I-" Flash started, but the words tangled in his throat, and his eyes lingered too long on the subtle flare of Peter’s nostrils, the quick intake of breath that might have been fear or frustration. Gross. Stop. “No, I’m not-"

 

But he was. He was judging him. He knew it. He couldn’t not. The thought of Peter sitting in this filthy bathroom while guys hit on him with bills in their pockets made him want to puke. But standing here, watching him shake and crumble like he was made of glass - it wasn’t judgment that filled him most. It was fear.

 

“I just-" Flash fumbled, hands still half-holding Peter’s arms, not knowing whether to let go. “I just think you deserve better. This is - man, it’s not-"

 

Peter jerked his arm out of his grip, stumbling a little, shoulders trembling. His face twisted. “You don’t get it,” he snapped, his voice breaking apart. “You don’t-" 

 

His throat worked, the words catching. He squeezed his eyes shut, like if he didn’t see Flash, he wouldn’t have to say it. 

 

“It’s not a big deal,” he forced out finally. His voice cracked again, harsher this time, bitterness shoved into the cracks to hold it together. “It’s just-" His lips trembled. He choked on the words. “It’s just - money. Whatever.” His voice broke on the last word. His head snapped up, eyes blazing wet and furious, and he spat, “Fuck you.”

 

The last part came out ragged, like it scraped his throat raw. Then he was moving, shoving past Flash with a stumble that almost took them both down. Peter shoved past him, stumbling on his way out. The lock rattled as he fumbled it open, the stall door banging against the partition. His sneakers squeaked against the tile as he staggered out, head down, shoulders hunched.   

 

Flash didn’t follow. He couldn’t. He just stood there, heart hammering, staring at the space where Peter had been. The bathroom still stank of cologne and sweat and the faint tang of cleaning chemicals, and it made his stomach twist harder. His hands were still shaking when he looked down at them, like they hadn’t gotten the message that Peter wasn’t there anymore. Like his body was still braced to catch him, hold him steady.

 

Flash stayed there. Kneeling on the grimy tile, hand still holding the last crumpled tissue he hadn’t used, stomach in knots. He felt sick. Sick at Peter, sick at himself, sick at how badly he wanted to go after him anyway.

 

And yet, even as he fought it, he could still feel the ghost of Peter’s warmth under his hands, the lingering faint scent of soap and something uniquely him, something that made his chest ache with the wrong kind of longing. He forced himself to label it gross, forced his mind to rationalize the pulse of something too sharp, too personal, too close. He counted tiles, shifted his weight, told himself it was about the care, the responsibility, the guilt - but even that logic rang hollow.

 

He swallowed hard, jaw tight, and finally let the paper drop to the floor.

 

He could still see Peter’s face - head tipped down, eyes fixed on the floor, mouth tight as he clenched his hands in his lap.

 

Stop thinking about it.  

 

The tilt of Peter’s jaw when he had dabbed at the corner of his mouth. The way the light had caught the sharp angle of his cheekbone. The little tremor when Peter flinched, so subtle it could’ve been imagined - but Flash knew it wasn’t. He could feel it in his chest even now, an ache that was equal parts guilt and longing, and he hated it. Hated himself for it.

 

I am not gay. I am not gay. I am not - I’m not thinking like this. But the image refused to leave him. He pictured it over and over, Peter letting him touch him, letting him clean him up, and every time, the warmth in his chest twisted tighter, sharper. He could still feel the ghost of Peter’s skin under his fingers, and his own hands itched to reach out again, to feel it again. Gross.

 

Flash pressed his palms hard against his thighs, swallowing bile. The echoes of Peter’s voice - hoarse and furious and breaking - rattled in his skull, louder than the pipes groaning in the walls.

 

He wanted to say something. To run after him, tell him he hadn’t meant it, hadn’t meant for it to come out like judgment, hadn’t meant to make him feel worse. 

 

But his legs wouldn’t move. His mouth wouldn’t work. So he stayed there, alone in the stall, staring at the floor, feeling sick.

 

—

 

Peter trudged down the street, the soles of his shoes dragging like they were filled with lead. 

 

He wasn’t thinking. He couldn’t. There was too much in his chest, too much in his head, and none of it made sense anyway. He just felt gross. Disgusting.

 

Every step sent a pulse of soreness through his hips, a dull, aching reminder of… everything. His face burned with the humiliation at the fact Flash had seen him and cleaned his face when he’d sat on the tiles like a fucking toy, used and abused and left on the dirty bathroom floor.

 

He swallowed hard, tasting bile.

 

He didn’t know what to think of Flash. One minute he was a dick, the next he was… something else. Someone human. Peter didn’t know which version to trust. 

 

He just felt tired. Bone-deep, all-consuming exhaustion that made it hard to even remember his own name. And shame. The kind that crawled under your skin and planted itself in the center of your chest and wouldn’t leave. Shame at what had happened, at what he’d allowed, at how he’d let himself be touched. Shame at being used, at feeling relief when Flash had cleaned him, and that disgusting sense of need that Peter had felt when Flash had held him upright so, so delicately.

 

His hoodie was soaked with sweat beneath the thin layer of jacket. He tugged it tighter, as if compressing himself into a smaller, more controllable shape might keep the nausea from spreading. 

 

He wanted to go home and curl into bed, wanted May to hold him the way she used to when he was five and scraped his knee, wanted the world to shrink to the size of his bedroom so that nothing could touch him. He wanted to disappear into soft blankets and forget that his body betrayed him, that his mind betrayed him, that everything hurt and he had no one to blame but himself.

 

He was supposed patrol. Then tutoring, then homework. He was supposed to work, too, and he’d already been skipping shifts. He felt like he was being pulled into ten different directions, pulling and ripping, shredding him into pieces small enough to hide under his hoodie. He was skipping work shifts now, skipping patrols, skipping everything that made him feel like he mattered, like he was good at something.

 

And yet he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t go.

 

By the time he reached the apartment, his legs were leaden, each step like wading through molasses. His stomach churned with a knot of shame, nausea, and the bag hung off his shoulder, half-empty, swinging against his thigh with every sluggish step. He paused at the door, hand hovering over the handle.

 

He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to answer questions. Didn’t want to be asked why he was late, why he smelled like the streets, why he looked like someone had shredded him from the inside out. His chest tightened. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to turn around and vanish into the night, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

 

Quietly, he dropped the cash into her bedroom, careful to split it up, tucking small bundles into the bedside drawer, wedged between worn notebooks and a few loose papers. His hands shook from exhaustion and adrenaline; he had to push down the urge to just collapse onto the bed right there.

 

Then his eyes caught the stack of documents she kept beside the drawer. He froze, curiosity and dread twisting together. He lifted them, thumb tracing the neatly printed words, skimming lines. Every heading, every page, pulled a heavier weight onto his chest.

 

Oh. 

 

Oh no.

 

—

 

The door clicked, footsteps in the hall. He tried to breathe, to act normal, but the spinning in his head betrayed him.

 

May was home.

 

She didn’t notice him at first, too busy putting groceries away or kicking off her shoes. Peter slumped against the counter, too tired, too dizzy to pace. His stomach fluttered like it was trying to climb out of him.

 

He couldn’t stop the words from spilling out.

 

“When… when were you going to tell me?” His voice was small, shaky, almost drowned beneath the pounding in his ears.

 

May paused, glancing up, eyes warm but cautious. “Tell you what, baby?” 

 

Peter’s hands tightened on the edge of the counter. “May… please,” he begged, tone breaking, desperation rising. “Please, I-”

 

Her shoulders sagged slightly, the softness in her face deepening. She knelt in front of him, eyes earnest and steady. “You saw.”

 

“I did,” he choked. “I - why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” he stammered, panic bubbling. “How long? How - what about the - how much-" He couldn’t even finish the questions. The words got caught in his throat. He was already thinking of bills and hospital costs, treatments and money they didn’t have. Every logical part of his brain screamed at him, while the rest of him felt like it was collapsing inward.

 

May reached for him, gentle, hands careful on his trembling arms. “I know. I didn’t want to scare you, and I didn’t want you to worry about me while you had so much on your plate.” She swallowed, voice small. “I’ve been skipping some treatments… they’re expensive. But it's going to be okay, Peter.”

 

Peter’s stomach fell out from under him entirely. The world tipped sideways. 

 

He was-

 

He was calling it. This was too much. It was hard enough just keeping the lights on and not getting evicted but this was - this was too much.

 

His hands shook, pressing against the counter, fingers curling into fists, nails digging into his palms before he fumbled for his phone in his pocket.

 

May moved closer, softer now, kneeling in front of him, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Baby,” she murmured, her thumb brushing his cheek. “Peter, I know it’s a lot. I know it’s scary. But - it’ll be okay. I’m going to fix everything, I swear.” She gave a small, fragile smile. “We just need to cut back a little more. I was thinking… maybe I could sell the car, take the subway, and-"

 

Peter’s chest locked up.

 

Ben’s car.

 

Not just a car. It wasn’t just metal and tires and a faded paint job. It was the last thing Ben had touched, the last thing he’d left behind that wasn’t tied up in paperwork or photographs. Peter could still remember the way the passenger seatbelt used to stick, how Ben would mutter about replacing it one day, and how they never got around to it. He remembered the gum wrappers in the glove box, the air freshener that had long since stopped smelling like anything but stubborn plastic, the sound of Ben’s voice every time he’d say, C’mon, tiger. Buckle up.

 

And May wanted to sell it.

 

She wanted to cut back more. Give up something else, something precious, because Peter couldn’t hold the world together. Because Spider-Man couldn’t hold the world together. Because every dollar Peter made in cash slipped straight into the void of rent and bills and treatments, and it still wasn’t enough.

 

His stomach dropped out from under him, cold and hollow.

 

“No,” Peter croaked, barely hearing his own voice. He shook his head so hard it made his skull ache. “No, you can’t - don’t. Don’t sell it, please, May, please.”

 

Her face shifted, lines of worry deepening, and she looked at him with that unbearably tender expression that made him want to scream. “Peter, it’s just a car. It’s not - it’s not him. I don’t want you to think I don’t care, but if it means I can keep going to work, keep us in the apartment-"

 

“No,” Peter said again, louder this time, his throat raw. “Not the car. Not Uncle Ben’s car. I’ll-" His words stuttered, hitched, failed. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, fingers scrabbling at the phone like it might offer him an answer. I’ll what? Sell more of himself? Crawl deeper into the humiliation he’d already drowned in? Break something inside himself for another handful of bills?

 

He could hear Flash’s voice in the back of his head, could feel Jake Reynolds’ smirk like a brand on his skin. The hands of the guy who’s name he didn’t even know when he-

 

The humiliation burned hot in his chest. His fists clenched until his nails bit into his palms, but it wasn’t anger, not really - it was panic. A panic so heavy it felt like drowning.

 

“I’ll fix it,” Peter whispered. His vision blurred, hot tears flooding his eyes before he could shove them down. “I swear, May, I’ll fix it. I’ll make it work. Just - just don’t sell the car. Please.”

 

“Peter…” Her voice cracked, her own eyes shining. She cupped his face in her hand, thumb brushing his cheekbone, and he nearly flinched from how gentle she was being. “You don’t have to fix everything. That’s not your job.”

 

“Yes, it is!” The words burst out of him, ragged and too loud, and his whole body jerked like a puppet on strings. “It is! Who else is gonna do it? Who else-" His breath hitched so hard it stole the end of the sentence. He pressed his fists against his forehead, trying to squeeze the pressure out, trying to keep his ribs from splitting apart with the sheer force of it.

 

His hands were shaking so hard he dropped his phone; it skittered across the linoleum and clattered against the counter. The sound seemed too loud. He bent to pick it up with fumbling fingers, breath hitching. May watched, and he read something like apology in her face, like she was already bracing herself for the possibility that she had hurt him and she’d have to live with that, too.

 

“Who are you calling?” she asked, and her eyes were wet. “Come here, baby. Just come here.”

 

He could taste salt at the back of his tongue from the tears he hadn’t let fall yet. “Mr. Stark,” he said at last, words like stones in his mouth. “I - he can help.”

 

For a moment May’s face closed like a flower folding. She didn’t reach for the phone to stop him, but her fingers tightened in his hair and she chided with that weary gentleness that both soothed and made him want to curl up and hide: “Peter,” the same tone she used to catch him in the act of doing something stupid. “You can’t ask him for money. I’ll fix it, baby. I’ll-" 

 

“I’m not losing you too,” he blurted out, the sentence exploded raw and ugly.  

 

May shifted, and when she spoke, her voice trembled but she kept the practical cadence that had always steadied him. “Peter-" she began, but he wasn’t listening to the rest. He couldn’t be. The last month had been a slow-motion collapse and it gathered in his chest like a storm.

 

The anger finally broke and it had been trapped under so many smaller things - bills, bruises, missed classes, the way he always had to choose between the thing that kept him fed and the thing that kept him alive. It rushed out in a wave that felt embarrassingly volcanic, the sort of honesty that made his words tear at him as they left his mouth. “I - I can’t handle it. I can’t handle it, none of this is okay and everything’s going wrong and I’m so hungry all the time-"

 

May’s face pinched the way it did when something he’d said stung.  

 

“-and if you die, I can’t do it. I can’t - You’re all I have left, May. You’re all I have left. I can’t-" He cut off, the words choking in his throat.

 

May didn’t say anything for a beat. There was only the distant rumble of the street, the occasional car passing, the soft hum of the overhead light that made the vinyl look almost silver. Then she stood. She put both hands on his face and hauled him in like he was suddenly a child again, the shape of him small enough to be swallowed by her embrace.

 

He sobbed into her chest like he had when he was very small and had scraped his knee and the world seemed like it might end. Only this time the nook that swallowed him was different - older, bearing folds of worry and the faint scent of laundry soap and worn-out sweaters. He clutched at her shirt, careful, like his fingers might bruise the fabric if he held too tight. 

 

He had the ridiculous, animal urge to protect her now, the way his body seemed to be made out of the need to keep that single warmth in the universe. He didn’t want her to choose markets and numbers over him. He didn’t want her to be consumed by the list of things that could be cut. He had nothing else.

 

“I can’t lose you,” he sobbed again, and he felt small and feral all at once, a kid in an adult body asking for something he knew he shouldn’t have to ask for.

 

“You won’t,” she said into his hair, voice muffled and cracked like old paper. He could feel her breath hitch now and then, and for a terrifying second he thought she might be crying as well - felt the tremor against him - but he couldn’t see. Tears had swollen behind his eyelids until every blink smeared the world.

 

His hands clawed at May’s shirt, fingers scrabbling for purchase on fabric that smelled like detergent and safety. He tried not to squeeze, to be gentle because the idea of hurting her even more than he already had was intolerable.

 

But the panic didn’t let him be tender. He sobbed into her shoulder a little harder.

 

May’s arms circled him and the motion was both an apology and a promise, she stroked his hair in a way that made him hiccup harder.

 

“You won’t lose me,” she whispered again into the hair at his cheek, and for a second he pressed his face harder into her shoulder, wanting to believe it so fiercely that belief would be enough to make it true.

 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-" He wrapped his hands around the cotton of her shirt and the fear was a fire under his ribs. He kept his grip careful because he knew his strength could hurt her. He would break her if he held her too hard. That thought was its own kind of terror; it made him clamp his jaw so tight his molars ached.

 

May’s chest vibrated against his cheek. “You won’t.”  

 

He thought about all the little things that led them here: the late notices, the way the lightbulbs in their hallway dimmed when the building’s bill hadn’t been paid on time, the stack of envelopes on the fridge with FINAL NOTICE stamped in red. He remembered how he had eaten a granola bar for dinner more nights than he could count these past few weeks, the sting at the back of his teeth from too much sugar and not enough real food. 

 

The ache of that was a kind without discretion. He was almost ashamed to name it; it felt both small and enormous - the stupid, everyday kind of cruelty inflicted by poverty.

 

And now there was this, too.

 

“Peter,” May whispered into his hair. Her voice was small. “It’ll be okay.” She pulled back enough for him to see her face. “I’ll pick up more hours. I’ll talk to Mrs. Franco about the extra shifts. I’ll make the phone calls-" Her voice snagged. She swallowed and steadied it. “We’ll sell the car if we have to. It’s just a thing, Peter. It’s just a thing. It can be replaced. You can’t.”

 

He wanted to argue that Ben’s car wasn’t ‘just a thing,’ that it had been a thin, stubborn thread that stitched their past to their present; it had been Ben’s grin at the wheel, the way he’d taught Peter to check his mirrors. He wanted to tell her that some things weren’t replaceable, that the metal and paint had a map of stories burned into it.  

 

“May,” he said, voice muffled and small. “Don’t. Please don’t-"

 

“I know,” she said. “I know. But if we sell something and it gets us through the next three months, that’s three months where we can be okay. I can get a second job. I have a friend who said she’d cover a Friday for me. I’ll do it.”

 

He hated that she was willing to shoulder it all without a fight. He wanted to be the one to move heavy things, the one to be useful-

 

“I can get a job,” he said, small but stubborn. “I can-"

 

“No,” May cut in quickly, too quick, a reflex. “No. You’re in school full-time. You need to sleep. You need to eat. You can’t work nights and-" Her voice fractured again. She pulled him tighter. “Peter, you have to promise me you’ll take care of yourself. 

 

“Okay,” he breathed. “But promise me you won’t-" he broke off, unable to say the thing that sat on the tip of his lips - don’t make me bury you. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “I can’t-"  

 

“You won’t,” she said again. “I swear. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

He wanted to hold her to that. And he tried; he tried to dig his nails into the idea and make it refuse to slide away. He wanted to be brave for her. 

 

“You won’t,” she said again, softer this time, and the gentleness of it was like salt on an open wound. Because she couldn’t know that. She couldn’t promise that. She didn’t have that kind of power, no matter how badly he wanted her to.

 

The truth was sitting there between them, sharp and awful: she was sick. She was skipping treatments. They were out of money, and all the web-slinging in the world can’t stop something like cancer.

 

Peter wanted to scream. He wanted to smash a hole in the wall until his hands break. He wanted to pull the city apart brick by brick until something - anything - gave him back control. But all he could do was sob into May’s shoulder like he was ten years old again and Uncle Ben just died, like he hadn’t grown at all, like he hadn’t learned a single thing.

 

He whispered, hoarse, almost against his will: “You’re lying.”

 

May stiffen, just a little. Then she kissed the side of his head, firm and trembling at the same time. “I’m not lying, baby. I’m telling you what I believe. It’s going to be okay.”

 

But Peter could hear the strain in her voice, and it gutted him.

 

Because Spider-Man was supposed to protect people. Spider-Man saved lives. But here, in their tiny apartment that smells faintly of dust and cheap detergent, Peter Parker was powerless. He couldn't even save the only person that matters most.

 

And all he could think was: then what’s the point? 

 

Notes:

tw for: SA/dub-con bc peter's TECHNICALLY giving his consent but also like. he doesnt really want to do it. mentioned cancer.

look. i was gonna let may just be a nice supportive aunt and nothing bad was going to happen to her, and yet. yall hate to see her happy ig.........

ngl this chapter got me tearing up a little. probably bc its late as fuck and ive been awake for way too long, but damn. also yall can thank @Bartib_A for may's cancer <3 i was going to be a nice person for once but clearly the world had other plans 😔😔😔

but side note flash using his big boy words after 10 chapters??? fucking finally?? to bad Peter got hit by the emotional semi truck that is the american healthcare system

Notes:

lmfaooo this one's so dumb and i love it >:) more coming hopefully soon lmfaoooo